


Irreplaceable

by Ololon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Child Abuse, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Physical Abuse, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 36,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Vetinari's secretary is kidnapped, the assailants and what they want unknown. Can Vimes and the Watch rescue him in time? And why does his kidnapper seem to know so much about his past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theCopperCow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCopperCow/gifts).



> Once again, I am bloody horrible to Drumknott in this fic. I promise I will one day write a fic (I have started one...) in which Vetinari gets whumped instead. And, you know, I may even slash someone else. WIP, but I am slowly getting there.  
> Gifted to theCoppercow who always leaves nice reviews on my Vetiknott fics and deserves some reward :)
> 
> (Note that, as with most of my fics, this is a standalone, not related to my other D/V fics)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful Duke-Draws made a beautiful drawing for this fic which I have proved spectacularly inept at including. Please find it here:  
> http://duke-draws.tumblr.com/image/148416379967

Lord Vetinari scrawled his signature across the one, two, three...four documents that Drumknott swiftly placed in front of him, one after the other.

“And if you could find for me - “ he began, and halted, raising his eyebrow at the fifth file that had apparently magically appeared under his hand, then opened it up and leaned back in his chair, a considering look upon his face.

“Will that be all, sir?” Drumknott asked, diffidently, secretly pleased at his astute guess. A true secretary knew what was required before it was asked. With the Patrician, however, that often proved to be something of a serious mental challenge.

“Hmm? Yes,” and Drumknott ebbed silently towards the door. He almost didn't catch the murmured, “You excel yourself, Drumknott,” and his heart gave a little twitch of pride. He glanced automatically at the clock as he exited the Oblong Office; late, already. Vetinari always worked late, and so, perforce, did he, but, in truth, he never minded. _Now_ , he thought, _let's see_ …in light of the current situation with the Thief's Guild, which he estimated the Patrician had let stew exactly the amount of time he intended to, and the latest report from the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, he anticipated that his Lordship might require some rather old files from Central Filing...he should just about have time to retrieve them before he was called for again.

A short while later, a little less than Drumknott had been expecting, but a little more than he had allowed, out of prudence, Lord Vetinari reached for the speaking tube to call him in. A moment more, and he frowned, repeating the order. There was neither reply nor the familiar knock at the door. Eyes narrowing, Vetinari opened a spring-loaded compartment in his desk and withdrew a sharp, pointy thing from a veritable smorgasbord of the same. Sidling to the door, he half-flung it open, dancing away to the side. Nothing happened. Cautiously, he stepped through, eyes taking in the room before him with a practiced glance. Nobody was there, including his chief clerk. He frowned. It wasn't like Drumknott to miscalculate; and certainly, he _had_ excelled himself earlier. He summoned a junior clerk and sent down to Central Filing, and was entirely unsurprised when the young man came literally running back, looking frightened and flustered, to report that, indeed, his personal secretary had gone missing, and, unthinkably, _left his files scattered upon the floor._


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Carrot was busy taking laborious notes on his notepad, standing ramrod straight by the door, whilst Commander Vimes occupied his habitual stance, or, rather, slouch, in front of the desk, staring at a point on the wall somewhat above the Patrician's head. Not for the first time, Vetinari considered having a portrait of himself hung there. One of the particularly staring ones.

“At what time did you call for your secretary sir?” Carrot asked, courteously.

“Seven twenty-two,” the Patrician replied, promptly.

“Is it usual for Mr Drumknott to work so late?” Vetinari shot him a look, as if he were questioning whether the Captain dared to imply he was some sort of tyrant.

“It is not out of the ordinary,” he said at last, still staring evenly at the Captain. Unfortunately, he knew from experience that Captain Carrot was somewhat...impervious to Meaningful Looks.

“And the clerk who went down to Central Filing says he discovered his absence at seven thirty pm. How long would you estimate the interval between his leaving your office and your calling for him, sir?” Vetinari hesitated briefly. He hadn't been keeping exact track of every minute. He had clerks to do that for him.

“Approximately half an hour,” he said, “Perhaps a little longer.”

“Right. Thank you, sir, that narrows down the time he could have gone missing considerably.”

“Commander,” Vetinari turned his attention to the stoic Vimes, still staring at the wall, “It is not possible that Mr Drumknott left of his own free will. I would therefore like to know what The Watch is doing to apprehend the miscreants responsible for his disappearance. Other than test my ability to read a clock, that is.”

“Oh it is _possible,_ sir,” Vimes replied, blithely ignoring the demand, “Certainly anything is _possible._ It is merely very unlikely. Sir.” Vetinari gave Vimes a Look. One that clearly said, Now Is Not The Time. Vimes relented, a little.

“I have my people searching as best they can, sir,” he said, a little defensively, “And Corporal Littlebottom and Sergeant Angua have been going over the cri – er, the scene of his last known whereabouts, but there is very little to go on, sir.”

“We are reasonably certain that he wasn't killed,” Carrot, Purveyor of Hope to the Worried, piped up, “Far more likely to be a kidnapping. There's no trace of blood or even much of a struggle, and he has no known enemies.”

“Of course,” Vimes, Purveyor of Pessimism (or possible just Stater of the Bloody Obvious) added, “Theoretically, he does have all _your_ enemies.”

“Then, Commander, _theoretically,_ what would they want with him?”

“Information,” Vimes said, instantly, “Either about yourself, to get something on you sir, or perhaps to get _to_ you, or information on some secret policy or other such thing.” Vetinari lifted an eyebrow that rather eloquently stated his opinion of this 'Motive.'

“The other possibility,” supplied Carrot, “Is perhaps a more simple case of blackmail.” Vetinari raised the other eyebrow.

“I have yet to receive a ransom note. Or other such thing.” Vimes glared at him. Carrot was oblivious.

“Well, sir,” he continued, looking, oh dear, earnestly concerned, “It's possible that the perpetrators might consider that, as he has been your personal secretary for a number of years, your relationship with Mr Drumknott is likely to be a close and intimate one, sir.” Vimes boggled, sliding his eyes round to stare rather urgently at Carrot, as if he hoped that would make the words go back into Carrot’s mouth and come out again in a more seemly fashion. His stares, alas, made even less of a dent than Vetinari's.

“Would they indeed?” the Patrician asked, in a tone rather more suited to commenting upon an unusual, but unspectacular, weather phenomenon.

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say that they may see your affection for him as a point of leverage.” _Don't say affection as if it's true! Or at all in front of **him!** _ Vimes thought desperately, but Carrot, regrettably, had no powers of telepathy either. There was a silence that went on just a little too long, not helped by Carrot, damn him, looking _sympathetically_ at Vetinari.

“What an enlightening insight into the mind of the...criminal, you have given me, Captain,” commented the Patrician, slowly leaning forward in his chair. Vimes began to breathe again.

“Commander.” Vimes’ eyes were dragged, screaming and protesting, to look directly at his, and got trapped by that nerveless blue stare. “I want my man _found,_ Commander.” The tone was crisp, enunciated...emotionless. The face was – the face was Vetinari being Vetinari. And the eyes said only, _Why yes, Commander, of course I have some of my special young gentlemen on the case, too. Which you will ignore._

“If you think of any information which may be...pertinent,” he said out loud, “Or receive any demands or threats, let me know.”

“Of course.”

“And I suggest you step up Palace security,” he added, on the way out.

“Don't worry, your Lordship,” Carrot felt compelled to chip in, as Vimes grabbed his arm and started to forcibly drag him to the door, “I'm sure we'll find him safe and well.”


	3. Chapter 3

Drumknott had just about recovered from the shaking rage he had felt when his assailants had ruthlessly and brutally scattered his files upon the floor, and even _torn up some of the papers!_ This was unfortunate, because now he was just scared. Really scared. Men like that clearly had didn't have the boundaries of decency that might restrain other, less dangerous sorts. Men like that clearly were prepared to take things as far as they needed to. He did not like where that thought led. So far it had led to his being coshed from behind and bundled unconscious into what he presumed was a coach, before waking up whilst being dragged down into somewhere with a distinctly Underground feel to it, and chaining him to the wall of something that had a distinctly Dungeon feel to it.

The Palace had dungeons, of course. He had seen them a few times. From the outside. They were very authentic, with dripping walls, rusting manacles, foul straw, rats and the odd bone scattered about. This felt like a cellar somebody had hammered a chain into the wall of, which was somehow distressing. Unprofessionalism was something Drumknott found particularly unpleasant. Although the whole being chained up in a cellar part was not especially enjoyable either.

 _And what would his lordship do without him?_ he fretted, rather unproductively. Well, of course, he chided himself, it wasn't as though there weren't plenty of other clerks who could do the job perfectly adequately but his lordship had his particular ways of doing things and his special requirements and whilst he would never dream of implying that he was in some way irreplaceable or get ideas above his station he couldn't abide the thought of someone else looking after, well, obviously not looking after, serving, that was it, serving his lordship, and taking over his filing system or even, perish the thought, _rearranging_ it, it really was too bad and -

Stop it. This would _not_ do. Having disorganised thoughts like that was like having a sock drawer that wasn't sorted by colour and warmth index. It may be easier in the short term but it was not going to result in the appropriate wardrobe attire when it really counted. He had to remain calm and rational. Obviously Lord Vetinari would have noticed shortly after he had gone missing, in fact, probably the very minute he had gone missing, and would have informed The Watch as was appropriate. They might even find him, eventually. He would grudgingly admit that, even under Vimes' un-administered administration, the Watch was reasonably competent. It was the eventually part that bothered him. Eventually left lots of room for other, less pleasant, things to happen in. And a small, well, not so small part, was really really hoping that Lord Vetinari might get just the tiniest bit...no, not angry, that was not a good idea, not that he'd ever really _seen_ him angry, well had anyone? ( _socks, Drumknott!_ ) Just the tiniest bit...annoyed. And send someone faster. And deadlier. 


	4. Chapter 4

“This isn’t making sense,” Vimes growled, sending a baleful look at the reports cluttering the clutter on his desk. He’d been up all night and hadn’t even had breakfast yet, which didn’t help.

“What doesn’t make sense?” asked Captain Carrot, who had chosen that moment to knock upon the door.

“This!” Vimes swept an arm at the assembled reports into the ongoing search for Mr Drumknott and/or his kidnappers, accidentally on purpose sending them flying onto the floor, where they were able to commiserate with other victims of Vimes’ wrath. “Why kidnap a clerk from the palace, the most heavily guarded building in the city? Why not wait until he was outside the grounds, going about his business in the city? And _how?_ “

“I wondered that myself, sir, and I believe I can shed some light it,” Carrot supplied, helpfully, passing him a sandwich as well. Vimes took a savage bite: well, it had lettuce in but there was bacon as well, small consolation.

“Well by all means illuminate me then, Captain.”

“Sir. I just got back from speaking to his Lordship again and – “

“I’m sorry, you went to see Vetinari again?” Vimes interrupted, various appalling visions of that encounter offering themselves up to his imagination.

“Yes, sir,”

“ _Alone?_ ” Carrot’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, sir. Is that a problem sir?”

“Well, probably only for him,” Vimes considered, and suddenly grinned, finding the ray of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy day. “And what did he have to say for himself?”

“I raised the very question you just did, Sir, having learned from your methods, sir,”

“Yes, yes, Carrot, do get to the point,”

“Sir.” Carrot brought out his notebook and thumbed carefully to the appropriate page. “Lord Vetinari informed me that Mr Drumknott has quarters in the main Palace building, and does not venture much about the city, apart from a few regular haunts. When he does, he is accompanied either openly by guards, or less openly by dark clerks, in the permanent employ of his Lordship, for his own protection, sir.”

“So the times when he is out in the city are irregular and he is anyway protected,” Vimes mused, “Meaning that his movements within the Palace are actually more predictable, nor is he always personally under the watchful eyes of the guards, allowing for a planned manoeuvre that will not be immediately detected.”

“Exactly, Sir. I also spoke to some of the clerical staff, and they mentioned that they do not always take the main route to Central Filing, but sometimes cut through the courtyard round the back of the kitchens, which is next to the outside walls, and where there are many deliveries coming to and from the grounds through the east gate.”

“Still a question how they got in and out,” Vimes mused. “It would take some nerve to snatch the Patrician’s head clerk from under his nose. They must have had an insider. Paid someone off.”

“Possibly sir.”

“Well…get Sally to report to me as soon as they’ve finished the staff interviews. And Angua as soon as she finds anything.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir. His Lordship has received no demands for ransom, or anything else.”

“Hmph,” was Vimes’ comment on that. “There’s something else, all right. I’m going out to check a few things, then I am going back to have a chat with his Lordship.”

“Why sir? Do you suspect he’s hiding something from us? Why would he do that?”

“It’s Vetinari! He’s _always_ hiding something!”


	5. Chapter 5

Over the years, Drumknott had developed a keen natural sense of time. Therefore, whilst other people in his position might have thought they’d been there a whole day, and not slept a wink for the terror before they heard heavy boots descend the stairs to the cellar, Drumknott in fact knew that it had been just under twelve hours, and that he had been unconscious for no more than thirty minutes before that. And that he had in fact dozed off, exhausted, for a couple of hours. It still _felt_ like it had been the best part of a day and a night however, and the knowledge that it wasn’t only served to dampen the hope that those steps belonged to a Watchman.

The door burst open, and dim light flooded in, making him blink. A tall man was outlined in the doorway, flanked by two shorter, heavy-set fellows.

“Mr Drumknott,” the tall man announced, “I _do_ apologise for your treatment. I’m afraid my associates didn’t quite understand the nature of their instructions.” He waved at the other men, who stepped in and efficiently undid his restraints and helped him to his feet. He wobbled between their firm grasp, one on each arm, feeling pins and needles prickling out down his legs. “I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived. Do come upstairs and we’ll get you cleaned up and have some refreshment, how does that sound?” the tall man continued. He decided not to reply to that, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

They took him up the stairs and allowed him to visit the privy. He was given fresh water to wash his hands and face, and even a new shirt, which was too big for him, but clean, which was more than could be said for his own. In short order, he was seated at a scrubbed table, in an otherwise bare room, with shuttered windows. His minders stood to either side and slightly behind him; the tall man, who had slicked over chestnut hair and a thin pencil moustache, sat opposite him, pouring tea. The table was set with a reasonable spread of food, and, in spite of himself, his mouth watered.

“Breakfast?” the chestnut haired man inquired, with a friendly smile.

“No, thank you,” he replied, politely. The man’s smile, if anything, broadened.

“Dear me. I hope you don’t have any fanciful idea of our trying to drug you,” he commented, taking a sip of tea, and pushing a cup towards Drumknott. Rufus briefly considered throwing it in the man’s face, but knew perfectly well that he would never be able to use the opportunity it might give him to escape; he was a clerk, not an Assassin, or a guard. Instead, he took a cautious sip.

“Good,” commented the man, “I expect you’re wondering what you’re doing here.” Again, he did not reply, but the man wasn’t fazed. “Well, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Turfhook. I’m what you might call a private investigator.” He looked expectantly at Drumknott’s face, which, with no attempt at acting, remained quite blank. A sigh. “Oh well, never mind. I suppose the idea hasn’t quite caught on here yet. It’s quite the thing in Pseudopolis, you know. Anyway, suffice to say, I am working for certain interested parties, investigating allegations of criminal behaviour that the usual authorities cannot, or will not, concern themselves with.” Drumknott took another sip of tea, in lieu of replying. “Specifically,” Turfhook continued, “I am investigating some very grave allegations against Lord Vetinari; namely that he has abused his position of authority to commit some, ah, quite serious improprieties against certain members of his staff.” Drumknott blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, this was not quite it, and it was making him worried.

“Have you no comment on the matter?” Turfhook prodded, beginning to show just a little impatience.

“I am aware of no such allegations against his Lordship,” Drumknott said, at last, warily. He couldn’t see the recording imps, but he was pretty sure they were there, somewhere.

“Well of course they’re not _public,_ ” Turfhook agreed, “And that’s entirely the problem. No one dare speak out against the tyrant, and the Watch can hardly be relied upon to investigate, not with Vetinari’s Terrier in charge of it. So we determined that we had to question his staff ourselves. _Directly,_ without any interference from the Patrician. Hence our most unfortunate but necessary ruse to whisk you out from under his control, which, once again, I do apologise for. It was the only way.”

“His Lordship is certainly aware that I am missing,” Drumknott couldn’t refrain from pointing out, knowing, even as he said it, that it was more to comfort himself than threaten them.

“Well, obviously, but he doesn’t know where you _are_.” Turfhook leaned forward, his hazel eyes shining earnestly, “You mustn’t worry, Mr Drumknott, you’re among friends now, and we can keep you safe from him, as long as necessary. But if the tyrant’s to be brought to justice, we need people willing to speak the truth against him. People like you, Mr Drumknott.” He leaned even closer, and Drumknott tried not to press back in his chair.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, stiffly, “You must have been misinformed.” He’d thought, when they’d first brought him up here, that he might be dealing with the usual plotting malcontents, or blackmailers; now he was wondering if the man was simply a lunatic.

 “I understand this must be very difficult for you to speak of,” Turfhook continued softly, ignoring that, “But perhaps you could just start by answering a simple question. Has Lord Vetinari ever forced you to – forgive me – engage in, ah, sexual relations with him?” Drumknott’s mouth sagged open.

“Certainly not!” he exclaimed, hotly, when he found his tongue again, and any interrogator worth his salt would have known that it was nothing but the truth that had burst forth so involuntarily.

“I’m sorry, perhaps I should rephrase…” Turfhook replied gently, and placed his hand over Drumknott’s where it gripped the table edge. Drumknott snatched it back, shocked. Turfhook leaned back again his chair, a calculating look upon his face.

“Abused people have issues with even innocuous personal contact,” he remarked.

“So do kidnapped people,” Drumknott shot back, without thinking, and was shocked at his own boldness – but he was outraged.

“And the scars upon your lower back?” Turfhook retorted, ever so mildly, “From repeated whippings over a number of years, I would say.” Drumknott’s blood ran cold. Of course. The shirt. He was an idiot.

“Pre-date my employment with Lord Vetinari,” he replied eventually. Turfhook seemed to consider that.

“I believe you,” he said at last, and his eyes filled with sympathy again. Drumknott was beginning to feel horribly confused. “From one tyrant to another, eh? You shouldn’t feel ashamed, it’s quite common, I am sorry to say. Perhaps you feel it isn’t the same. Perhaps he’s quite…kind, to you. But there’s still that power imbalance, isn’t there? And did you quite make the choice, or was it made for you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drumknott muttered again. He wanted very much to leave. He was used to the idle insults and insinuations cast about the Patrician, but this was different from common gossip and complaining. He discovered that it upset him to hear Vetinari slandered so unfairly.

“A simple statement, that’s all I ask,” Turfhook prompted softly. Drumknott took a deep breath, looked him squarely in the eye.

“Lord Vetinari is a fair and generous employer,” he said firmly, “He has never behaved inappropriately towards myself or to any other employee – “

“ – to your knowledge,” Turfhook interrupted,

“ – or to any other employee,” Drumknott persevered, “He has in no way abused myself or any other member of staff, at any time. Whoever has made these entirely false allegations is either mistaken or malicious in their intent, and is, in either case, wasting your time.” There was a long pause, in which Drumknott could hear himself breathing heavily, and tried to force himself to calm down.

“I see,” Turfhook remarked at last, “You seem rather agitated, Mr Drumknott. Would you care for some more tea?”

“No.”

“It must have seemed a great privilege,” Turfhook mused, as if to himself, “To gain first a position in the Palace and then rise, so young, to the dizzy heights of Head Clerk and Personal Secretary to his Lordship, particularly given that all the previous holders of the office were Assassin-trained. Dark clerks, I believe they call them. Even more so given your background. Your family must be very proud. The money must be a great blessing to them. Perhaps you think you have no choice but to tolerate your working conditions. Perhaps you even think it’s a price worth paying for their continued wellbeing, that you are in some way _fortunate._ ” Drumknott glared at him, opting for silence again. He was beginning to seriously dislike this man. Turfhook chuckled lightly.

“Lord Vetinari is a perceptive man, is he not? He must have seen something in you.” Another chuckle. “I am not suggesting it was your looks,” he added, almost teasing, “Comely though they are. No, I am sure you perform your duties admirably. Vetinari would hardly put up with an incompetent.” He cocked his head to one side, curiously. “Does he ever praise you, thank you?” Drumknott blinked, blindsided again.

“He compliments me upon good work,” he said cautiously.

“Oh that’s always nice isn’t it? Still, there are more than a few possessed of good clerical skills, and some with bodyguarding skills thrown in. Tell me, do you think it was your loyalty he saw, or your need?” That question was less unexpected, but no less unsettling.

“Perhaps,” he replied, standing up, “It was my potential.” Turfhook didn’t move. The men on either side of him didn’t move. He’d half-expected them to grab him, slam him back into the chair.

“I believe I have answered your question, Mr Turfhook,” he added, “May I go now?” Turfhook smiled.

“But that would be very remiss of me, Mr Drumknott, after I promised to protect you.”

“I do not need protecting from Lord Vetinari.”

“Perhaps you would like to reconsider your position on that matter.”

“No I don’t think so.”

“Loyalty then. I thought so. One wonders what he does to deserve it. Oh well.” He waved a hand vaguely at the two guards, and Drumknott was vastly unsurprised to find himself firmly escorted back to the cellar, and chained up again. He had a sinking feeling that Mr Turfhook was very far from being a lunatic.


	6. Chapter 6

Vetinari had made Vimes wait for a full quarter hour before admitting him to the Oblong Office. His secretary less and less likely to be alive with every passing minute, and the damnable man had made him _wait._ When he was finally ushered in, by a very anxious-looking clerk ( _poor bastard_ , he had time to think) he was fuming, and Vetinari was sitting at his desk like he always did, leafing through papers. He didn’t even bother to look up, which somehow managed to provoke Vimes into stomping forward and planting both hands on the desk, to stand glowering over the man.

“I want a word with you,” he growled.

“That is, one understands, what face to face appointments are generally for,” the Patrician said, agreeably. He finally glanced up from his papers, his gaze travelling from Vimes’ hands to his face. An eyebrow raised with slow inevitability. Vimes found himself carefully and slowly removing his hands, and told himself it was only because getting Vetinari in a bad mood with him wouldn’t serve his purposes at all. He took a deep breath.

“You have news to report, Commander?” Vetinari said, before he could form the sentence.

“Not exactly sir – “

“Then why are you here?” with another pointed look.

“Because I have _questions_.” The look directed towards the chair. Vimes refused to sit in it.

“Dear me,” murmured the Patrician, putting the papers down and fractionally adjusting their alignment on his desk, “You have questions, Captain Carrot has questions, and _I_ am still waiting for _answers,_ Commander.”

“We worked out how they got him out,” Vimes admitted, and grudgingly sank into the chair. He was tired. It felt like he had been running around ever since this had happened; the worse sort of running around, with nowhere to go. “There’s a regular delivery of coal to the kitchens that comes late every Friday, between 7-8pm. They do the Palace last because it’s a large delivery and they prefer to do it all late, when the streets have quieted down a little. They come through the east gate, round the back of the kitchens, the same route the clerks sometimes cut through down to Central Filing.”

“Then the kidnappers have either been hiding amongst sacks of coal every Friday evening in the hope of getting lucky,” Vetinari pointed out, “Or they had advance notice.”

“Almost certainly both,” said Vimes, “Someone had to have let on that the clerks, including Mr Drumknott, use that shortcut, but they would never had had enough time to send a message out to say that he was on his way right at that moment. It only takes ten minutes to get from this office down there. Even if they could somehow send a signal, the cart takes an hour from the collier’s yard to here, and it’s a pretty solid cart, with the sides and back all sealed up. I don’t think people could just jump on.”

“I take it you have a suspected informer,” said Vetinari, leaning back a little and steepling his fingers. He was the very model of patience and composure. There was no hint that this was anything other than an interesting problem like any other interesting problem that crossed his desk. Of course, Vimes thought, he was _always_ like this, but if it had been Carrot or Angua gone missing, then _he_ would be tearing his hair out by now. Or tearing strips off people.

“A footman didn’t turn up for his job this morning,” said Vimes, “Relatively new fellow, started about four months ago. Didn’t talk much about himself. We’re trying to find him and we’ve impounded the collier’s cart. I’ve got Angua and Cheery trying to track its movements.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Angua says he was definitely in the cart. There was blood. Just a trace, mind.”

“Commander,” Vetinari said, carefully, “You are telling me very little that Captain Carrot did not tell me earlier this morning.”

“I told you: I have questions, starting with Who? and Why? And I’m damned if I have the foggiest clue.”

“And you think I do?”

“You’ve got to have some idea!”

“Several,” said Vetinari, still in that infuriatingly calm tone, “Mostly concerning various Klatchian and Genuan interests in the city.”

“Give me names,” growled Vimes, but Vetinari waved a hand in brief dismissal.

“And have you blundering about creating a diplomatic incident over nothing? I think not, Commander.”

“Gods damn it this is a man’s life we’re talking about! Politics be damned!” Vetinari gave him a measured look.

“You will avail yourself nothing chasing after phantoms, Commander; these people may be pulling the strings, but they will have ensured that they have no plausible connection to the kidnappers. Those are hired men; they probably don’t even know who is paying them. Moreover, we are still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“What shoe?”

“Mr Drumknott has been kidnapped – and nothing has happened. They do not have what they want yet, or what they want will take time to achieve independent of what information they can get.”

“You think this is about information?”

“No, I think it is about money.” _Money?_  Vimes’ mind raced, trying to chase after the Patrician’s thoughts – a futile endeavour, in his experience, and most everybody else’s, so far as he knew. Except, possibly, the thought struck him, possibly, after all this time, in the thick of it all, Drumknott himself might have a fair inkling.

“Well go on then,” was all he said, grumpily.

“This is an operation that has taken time to set up,” the Patrician explained, “Time, and money. It has been an _investment_. They have inveigled an informer onto the staff, several months ago, they have identified the one person other than myself who has a detailed knowledge of the operation of this city, and, note, its trade with other cities, and they have, as you point out, spent countless evenings paying kidnappers – themselves professionals, for this kind of job – to sit getting dusty in the back of a coal cart on the off chance that this will be the night that fortune favours them. They must also of course extract the proper information from Mr Drumknott to make their scheme work. It is, in short, something that took a not inconsiderable amount of money to set up – money that they could afford to _waste_ if nothing came of it, but something that, if it did work, would lead to a very substantial financial payout.”

“You mean…” Vimes floundered,

“I mean that, if it does work, I would expect in, say, six months, the offending party will prove to made an unusually perspicacious and fortuitous financial speculation that will yield them considerable profit.” _He’s talking about his secretary getting tortured and killed and using words like ‘investment’ and ‘speculation’_ , Vimes thought, incredulously. _How can anyone be so…objective?_ Then his thoughts twisted round 180 degrees, and he thought, suddenly, that Vetinari _must_ care, at least on some level, otherwise he would have let him figure this out himself. The hard way.

“Is there anything else Commander?” Vetinari asked, still as patient as ever, and Vimes hesitated, because his instincts were still screaming at him that he was missing something. Whatever it was, though, Vimes didn’t know, and Vetinari, if he did, wasn’t telling, and he, Vimes, just had to trust that this wasn’t anything that he needed to help him find the poor bastard any sooner.

“No sir,” he said at last, rising from the seat with a heavy heart. He almost wanted to say something to Vetinari….something reassuring. But what was there to be said, when the man had been missing for the best part of a day already, and was probably having god only knew what done to him to make him talk? And when he did talk, then he’d need to be silenced. He made his way to the door in silence.

“Good afternoon, Commander,” Vetinari said quietly behind him. Vimes heard rather than saw him pick up another piece of paper, and shut the door quietly behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

It was only four more hours of making himself uncomfortable before Drumknott was brought back up to the shuttered room. He knew that time was not on their side (although, admittedly, it wasn’t entirely on his, either). He suspected that he’d find out what they really wanted this time. He didn’t expect, when the door opened, to see the furniture rearranged. A desk had replaced the table. There were bookshelves leaning against the walls, stacked with books, even. There was a model of the disc in the corner. Mr Turfhook was standing facing away from him, hands clasped behind his back, dressed like a schoolmaster. A cane lay across the desk. It was hardly an exact replica, but it was close enough to be uncomfortable, and, in spite of himself, Drumknott stopped dead in the doorway.

“This is absurd, he said, before he could censor it.

“Quiet boy!” Turfhook barked, “We’ve had quite enough of your disobedience for one day.” The men shoved him to stand before the desk. For a moment, Turfhook dropped the act, and leaned closely toward him.

“A simple statement,” he urged, “Is all I want from you, Mr Drumknott. Ask yourself what you’re holding out for.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” he replied, evenly.

“Then take your punishment.” When Drumknott made no move, he added, “Drop them or have it done for you.” Slowly, Drumknott loosened his belt, unbuttoned his drawers, and let them fall. The guards lifted his shirt roughly and bent him over the desk. _Ridiculous, ridiculous_ , he repeated to himself, as he waited for the first blow to fall. His body automatically braced itself, his breathing changing. It whooshed out in a startled grunt as the cane lashed down across his buttocks and back, with a very old, and very familiar, pain. He yelped with each stroke. It helped, a little. The moments stretched; time cheating him, again. In spite of himself, memories of past beatings jostled themselves for his attention.

“Is this how Vetinari punishes you?” Turfhook’s voice goaded him, between strikes, jarring him disconcertingly between past and present.

“No,” he got out, through gritted teeth. Turfhook stopped, then. Twenty-two lashes. Drumknott’s legs wobbled as he was pulled up. He attempted to rearrange his clothing with shaking hands. The shirt hung loose over the back of his trousers, sticking to his bloodied back. _Absurd,_ he told himself again; _ridiculous –_ but his cheeks were burning with humiliation and tears stung his eyes. Turfhook regarded him from hooded eyes, and signalled, briefly at the guards. One of them braced him whilst the other held his hand spread flat against the desk. His heart was pounding hard.

“Let’s be clear about this boy,” Turfhook said, clearly and concisely, “You know as well as I do that we don’t have time for mucking about. Nor, at this point, do we have a great deal to lose. You are probably right. Vetinari’s looking for you. The Watch is looking for you. At some point, someone will find you. I’ve no intention of killing you, but it’s up to you in what state they find you. A lack of cooperation will gain neither you nor your master anything.” Drumknott finally found his voice.

“No one will credit a statement so clearly made under duress.” The words came out thin, reedy and high-pitched. Like a frightened schoolboy’s. Turfhook smiled thinly. He reached for a paperweight upon the desk, and with a sickening realisation, Drumknott watched helplessly as he raised it above his head, then brought it crashing down upon his fingers. Distantly, he heard himself scream. The room swam with dark red sparkles.

“Own up Drumknott,” Turfhook’s voice in his ear, being headmaster again. The guard let go his hand and he instantly cradled it against his body, trying to think over the agony shooting from his fingers. Then Turfhook’s fingers were lifting his chin, even as he tried to shrink away, and the deceptively mild hazel eyes were boring into his own.

“Consider what you have to lose by your silence, as opposed to what you would lose by talking.”

Then the guards were half-carrying him back to the cellar. His entire focus was taken up with trying to protect his hand from further injury. He was shocked rigid, and lay there, unmoving, after they’d tossed him in, not bothering to chain him up this time. He’d known that it would get unpleasant. He just hadn’t realise how quickly it would get _really_ unpleasant, and the charades they were playing were not making matters any better for him, obviously. He still didn’t understand what they wanted, and he had a sneaking suspicion that, by the time he had figured it out, or he would have already inadvertently given it to them.

He shifted a little, trying to see the damage done to his fingers in the dark. It was only the first two on his right hand, and he was left-handed, so that was something. He chuckled darkly to himself. They were definitely broken. He couldn’t move them. Awkwardly, he tore off a strip of shirt to tie them together with, whilst they and his back both screamed for attention. Then he tried to curl up on his side and rest. His mind insisted on supplying him with possible unpleasant futures, mingled with suddenly remembered pasts, and neither of them were good. It had been so long since he’d thought of that place…he’d almost thought it buried beyond recovery. He thought instead of a sudden and violent encounter between Turfhook and the Patrician, and even managed a smile. Vetinari would find him, and he could go back to his job, and everything would be all right.


	8. Chapter 8

They had a map of the city spread out on the floor in Carrot’s office. It was the only one tidy enough to do so.

“The cart took a direct route back to the collier’s yard, but stopped here, here, and here on its return from the Palace, that we have witnesses to,” said Carrot, marking points on the map as he did so, “Which it shouldn’t have had to do, because it was empty.”

“So did they take him out or switch him?” said Vimes.

“The first and last I am certain were bluffs,” said Angua, “After the first, the trail was still there, if faint. After the last, it wasn’t; unfortunately, it wasn’t after the second, either.”

“Well they wouldn’t want to keep him too long in the same cart, in case someone smart caught onto them quickly,” said Vimes, “So they would have wanted to switch him quickly.”

“I was coming to that,” Angua said, a little pointedly, “I examined the route all between the second and third stops, from Monkey Street to Rope Street. The scent is faint, but it goes down to the river, near Pearl Dock. I lost it on the other side.”

“A barge,” Vimes guessed, “They didn’t switch him to another cart, they took him across the river and picked up from there. Dammit, they could have piled him into anything and taken him anywhere.”

“Perhaps,” offered Carrot, “But I think it unlikely. The turnwise side of the river is a hive of activity at that time of night, sir. There’s warehouses and slaughterhouses and the like all along that stretch, and they’re all preparing for the morning. Despite the confusion, I don’t think they’d have risked people seeing them carrying an unconscious man up to a cart anywhere along there. It would have to be this small stretch here. His pink, fingernail-scrubbed digit swept out an area that was not unfeasibly large, and Vimes felt a sniff of hope even as his eyes scanned the page and saw nothing of particular note.

“There’s a currently disused warehouse just here,” Cheery pointed out.

“Hmm. I don’t think so,” he said. “It’ll be nothing too obvious, because these bastards may be bold enough to snatch the Patrician’s secretary from under his nose, but they don’t seem to like being obvious.” He could feel his mind reaching for an answer. “No, it’ll be somewhere smaller, subtler…perhaps further in, towards Dimwell, here. Mixed residential and commercial. Somewhere with people working all sorts of hours, somewhere where people don’t really know their neighbours. Somewhere with a basement.”

“It’s not so large,” Carrot observed, “We could call in all the reserves and simply go house to house, quarter the whole area systematically.” Vimes hesitated. It was tempting. It was also time-consuming and blunt as all hell. He glanced up at the grimy window, habitually.

“We don’t want to be obvious either,” he said, “Even if we manage to successfully cordon off the area so they can’t scarper, which I am by no means confident of, we don’t want them sniffing us coming and panicking because they’re trapped. Or simply cutting their losses and – and getting rid of the evidence,” he finished, grimly.

“I can go down and sniff them out myself,” Angua offered, a dangerous glint in her eye.

“Do it, if you can pick up the trail. Something tells me that they’ve been clever enough to account for that though. Sun’s going down – and I want watchers out tonight. Eyes on every corner – gargoyles up on the roofs, everybody who can see and not be seen. There’ll be something to give them away, people coming and going in the dead of night if we’re lucky. And get Pessimal to get me details of all the property leasings, businesses, any tenant information he can find, anything. We’ll have them.”

“Should I send word to the Patrician, sir?” asked Carrot, after the others had bounded eagerly off on their duties. Vimes was still staring at the map as if he could will it to give up their location. He nearly said No automatically, because he hated Vetinari always knowing everything anyway, and he hated it even more when he _interfered_ and didn’t tell Vimes…but they were on the same page, no matter how he might despise the man sometimes.

“Good idea,” he replied, thinking of assassins and dark clerks, when a piece of paper on Carrot’s immaculately tidy desk caught his eye.

“Why do you have Mr Drumknott’s CV on your desk Carrot?”

“Because I thought it might give a clue as to the kidnappers, sir,” Carrot said, as earnestly as ever. Vimes frowned.

“Say what?”

“I was Considering All the Possibilities, sir,” he said, somehow managing to convey the capitals. “It occurred to me, sir, that we were only regarding this as being about Lord Vetinari, but it could just be a coincidence – that Mr Drumknott works for him, I mean. Maybe it was someone who has a grudge against Mr Drumknott, sir, someone who really hates him.”

“Carrot, the man doesn’t have enough personality for anyone to really hate him,” Vimes said, and immediately felt a twinge of guilt at Carrot’s reproachful look. He picked up the piece of paper and scanned it disinterestedly, out of habit as much as anything. Information was information, and Carrot had the right idea, but sometimes he just didn’t apply himself quite the right way.

“This is about Vetinari,” he said, “It’s always been about Vetinari.” He put the paper back down again and walked out.

It was some hours later, long past darkness, when Vimes stormed back into Carrot’s office, which had become something of a control centre for organising the search, and snatched the paper off his desk and stomped hurriedly out again, with a shouted,

“Continue coordinating things here! I’ll tell Vetinari myself.”

“But I’ve already sent a clacks…”

“Just do it Carrot. I’m going to the Palace.” 

“Yes sir.” Carrot frowned. What had Vimes just seen that he hadn’t?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has one homophobic insult in (for a reason, obviously, not for kicks!), just to warn ppl.

Despite Turfhook’s assertion that they were in a hurry, the questions did not start in earnest until several hours later, by his reckoning the middle of the night. Drumknott had been rudely awoken from a confusing dream in which Lord Vetinari kept handing him files that were written in some strange, foreign language he didn’t recognise. After giving him a little water a couple of hours after the first session in the office, they had left him chained to the wall again, his arms above his head; not quite hanging, but not quite standing either. It was supremely uncomfortable. Then he was left for an hour or so longer, just to make sure he was aware exactly how uncomfortable it was, before Turfhook came down again. Thinking about it, he concluded that this morning’s melodrama had been another part of the act; a way to make him think them dangerously pushed for time, to scare him into talking quickly.

Turfhook sat on an upturned beer barrel, seemingly at his leisure. They affixed a light above his head, shining in his face. So far, so predictable. Then, then the questions began, and Drumknott had not quite decided whether he was going to answer, or how. He was no fool: to set up an operation like this meant that they wanted _something,_ probably something very specific, and if he was to stay alive, he had to not give it away but let them believe that they could make him, in time, until he was rescued. Or, more likely, until he couldn’t take it anymore. But he needed more information himself. He could as yet discern neither pattern nor purpose to this kidnapping; which meant he couldn’t answer anything at all until he did, something he suspected was not going to make things comfortable for him.

It began where they had left off last time:

“Does Lord Vetinari abuse his authority to make inappropriate demands of his domestic staff?”

“No.”

“Has he ever forced you to engage in sexual relations with him?”

“No.”

But it continued with other, random questions thrown in.

“How many of the clerks are the so-called dark clerks, assassin trained?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come now, you’re the head clerk, surely you have some inkling?”

“I am not privy to that information.”

“Have you then willingly engaged with sexual relations with his Lordship?”

“No.”

“So you were unwilling then?”

“No.”

“Did Lord Vetinari attend the Klatchian ambassador’s soiree last month?”

“Yes.” That had been in the papers, for Io’s sake.

“What is the current complement of the Palace guard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Lord Vetinari ever patronise the Seamstress’ Guild?”

“I don’t know.”

“So he’s a faggot then?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many watchmen are former Palace guards?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has Lord Vetinari granted preferential contracts for civic buildings to the Guild of Builders or Cunning Artificers?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does Lord Vetinari generally prefer to eat for breakfast?”

“Food.” A leather glove slapped sharply across his face for that.

“Less of your impudence boy!” It was back to the headmaster’s office, for the same old charade with the cane, although, fortunately, no finger-breaking, and straight back down to the cellar, bewildered and smarting, for more questions. The same questions, over and over, about Lord Vetinari’s…personal conduct, and a whole slew of other questions.

Then finally it was back to being chained up the cellar, so he got to continue being uncomfortable, as well as in a lot of pain. He hung there, breathing laboured. It was now 6:20am. The time Lord Vetinari usually rose in the morning, his distracted mind reflected. Then he wondered why this fact had come to him. It hadn’t been a question they had asked; yet, anyway. He pondered it for a while, pondered too the questions. It was a distraction from his discomfort. It was a habit as much as anything. His brain was still trying to file. He had always known it would, right until the very end.

It was only very much later that he remembered that Vetinari almost certainly knew that too.


	10. Chapter 10

Vimes carried on stomping all the way to the Palace, and right through the antechamber into the Oblong Office itself, noting with some satisfaction that the replacement clerk ( _temporary_ replacement, his jaded optimism insisted on interjecting) had nowhere near Drumknott’s capacity for quietly stopping him, and then felt quite ill again when he remembered what he’d seen on the CV, swiftly followed by puzzlement as he realised the office was empty. The panting clerk came running up behind him.

“Where is he?” Vimes snarled, suspicion flooding him, as warm and familiar as whisky.

“He’s gone to bed,” the clerk replied, with a tone and expression of sincere injury.

“ _Bed?”_ Vimes repeated incredulously.

“It _is_ nearly midnight, Your Grace,” the clerk replied, with stiff affront.

“I never knew he actually slept,” Vimes said, somewhat stupidly. “Well he’s going to have to wake up again. Come on then, where does the bas – Patrician sleep anyway?”

“Sir!” called the hapless clerk, chasing Vimes’ cardboard soles down the corridor. Vimes completely ignored the man. He probably could have got to Vetinari quicker if he’d meekly followed him, but, despite his hurry, it was somehow more satisfying this way.

Finally he had the pleasure of barging straight into the Patrician’s rooms equally unannounced. Vetinari was not, in fact, asleep, but he was in a sleek black dressing gown, sitting in a chair by the fire, apparently reading a small, old-looking volume. He looked up as Vimes burst in, completely unsurprised. He raised an eyebrow. Vimes felt his blood pressure go up.

“I’m so sorry my lord!” blurted out the forgotten clerk, panting in the doorway behind Vimes. He drew a deep breath, doubtless about to launch in a hasty explanation, but Vetinari waved a hand in idle dismissal and the man wisely made himself scarce, quietly closing the door behind him. Vimes thumped down into a chair uninvited. A remarkably tatty armchair, considering the wealth of the Palace, but, gosh, it was comfortable. He sat forward, making himself a bit less comfortable, and glared at the Patrician.

“It is fortunate that you have such a distinctive stride, Commander,” Vetinari said, carefully placing a bookmark, closing his book and placing it on a side table, “People do not generally come through that door uninvited more than once.” Vimes just gave a derisive snort.

“I’m not interested in your Assassin’s games,” he growled, and then didn’t quite know how to ask what he wanted to ask.

“Captain Carrot did thoughtfully send me a clacks apprising me of the current direction of your investigation,” Vetinari said, ever so mildly.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me Drumknott was at Yarsley?” Vimes demanded, finally coming straight out with it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The name hung in the air between them like poison. He should have broached it sensitively, or at least obliquely…but Vetinari just seemed to rub him up the worst possible way.

“I was not aware that it could be of any possible relevance.” It was the same mild, calm tone, but there was a distinct chill behind it. Vimes stared at the unbreakable wall of that face, and wondered.

“That was for me to judge,” he growled.

“Was it? Commander, that was a past crime. This is a present one. And it is nothing to do with Mr Drumknott’s past.”

“You can’t _know_ that. There might have been someone he implicated…someone who had something against him…”

“Commander,” Vetinari cut him off, “You are grasping at straws. The…situation at Yarsley was exposed by a supply teacher and a few parents whose children had found the courage to confide in them.”

“Yes, and nobody believed them and nobody bloody _did_ anything!” Vimes snarled, then tried to rein in his temper. “Nobody, that is, until a certain young Lord who’d got wind of it took it upon himself to notify the Watch and insist something be done. And they had to listen to a nob, didn’t they?” He stopped, with an effort, took a breath. “How did you know, anyway?”

“Yarsley’s was a common choice as a preparatory school for those of the lower middle class who aspired to go into secretarial professions, and showed sufficient talent for a scholarship.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I found the initial complaint filed away in a drawer somewhere in the Palace archives of Watch activities, whilst I was looking for something else. It had been made over five years previously.” Vimes declined to ask what, or whether, at that time, Vetinari had entirely been allowed to search such records, but Yarsley had been exposed shortly before Vetinari became Patrician, he remembered that.

“It’s not fair,” he said at last. “To have had to go through that in your childhood. And now this on top of it.”

“I was not aware that it was a requirement or, indeed, a characteristic of life to be fair.” Frustration boiled up within Vimes. Would it be too much to ask for the man to just show one human emotion? Vetinari shifted, recrossed his legs. “He was young enough that he started at the school after the original headmaster, Crowtheel, had left, which was some small mercy, perhaps.”

“Is that why you hired him?” Vimes couldn’t stop himself from asking, although he managed not to add, _Because you knew he must have figured you were the one who saved them all from that hellhole, and after Wonse…you needed someone who would have that kind of loyalty._

“No,” Vetinari said, after an unusually long pause, “Although I suspect, at least initially, that is why he applied to the Palace. It would not have taken much effort on his part to find out the truth.”

“Why did you take him on then? He’s not a dark clerk like his predecessors.” Vetinari smiled thinly.

“Perhaps I saw his potential.” _Ye gods,_ Vimes thought, _was he trying to protect the man?_ Vimes let out a heavy sigh.

“They never got that bastard Crowtheel,” he said, for want of something to say, “Died happily in retirement before it ever came out. Didn’t even get all the rest. Just some of them.”

“They were all ‘got’, Commander,” Vetinari replied, so quietly he almost didn’t hear. It took a half-second for Vimes to parse the meaning, and then his emotions seemed to spilt contrarily in two between outrage and grim satisfaction.

“The law isn’t for people to take into their own hands,” he said at last, gruffly, and didn’t even know why because he knew, deep down, that Vetinari, who _was,_ technically, the ultimate arbiter ofthe law in Ankh-Morpork, essentially agreed with him.

“No it is not,” Vetinari indeed replied, “But when the law fails, the need for justice remains. Those sorts of people do not stop, Commander. When the whispers grow too loud, they disappear, they lie low, and then they quietly re-appear somewhere else, and start their crimes anew.”

“I know,” was all Vimes could say to that, wondering, not for the first time, how Vetinari seemed to know so much about the dark and dirty side of life, when his own had been lived so insulated from it. But then maybe it was just that Vetinari approached everything with that same piercing objectivity; even those aspects of human nature that other people wanted to deny, that they closed their eyes to.

“At any rate, Drumknott had nothing to do with the exposure of the perpetrators, and so had no enemies to make.” Vimes made no reply to that; he was too busy thinking of Drumknott – rather, of re-assessing him, seeing him in an entirely new light. He’d always regarded the man as such a non-entity that, on the few moments when he _did_ come to his attention, he had paused only to wonder how someone seemingly so quiet and unassuming could cope with dealing with the Patrician every day without crumpling under the pressure, or being swallowed up entirely by the force of the personality he worked with. Now he wondered if that wasn’t entirely the point – _everybody_ was scared of Vetinari. _Nobody_ got the better of him. And Drumknott – a little man who scurried fearlessly about, like a mouse across the lion’s paws, somehow sure he wouldn’t get squashed. And safe from all the cats and serpents outside. Did he feel betrayed now that they’d got him after all? Was Vetinari wondering the same thing?

“Do you think he’ll blame you?” he asked, and immediately regretted it.

“For what? Having enemies? One really cannot avoid it, in this occupation,” was Vetinari’s mild counter.

“For not protecting him,” he said. If Vetinari had said, then, that it wasn’t his job to protect the man, Vimes thought that he would have left as angry as he’d gone in, partly from the answer, and partly because the stupid, tactless question deserved it.

“That would be a child’s emotional reaction,” the Patrician said instead, “Mr Drumknott, I think you will find, is a man.”

“Yes. Yes he is,” Vimes said, and left. There was nothing more to say, and he wasn’t about to make glib promises. Vetinari was hardly a child either. It was hard to imagine that he must ever have been so.


	11. Chapter 11

Drumknott hung in the darkness of his cellar. Another day, another round of questions, another pantomime caning, another sleepless night. They were coming back, and soon, he knew that. He had a feeling that they’d drugged the water they’d given him, too. His mind seemed dizzy with more than just fatigue and the ceaseless interrogation, but it was still filing, and it had been given a lot to file. Many, many new questions. The apparently random nature, he knew, was to confuse him, to hide _which_ one of the questions they wanted the answer to. By far the greatest category of questions were the frankly distressing ones mostly involving himself and Lord Vetinari, but then again, that was probably the point. He couldn’t help but focus on them, couldn’t help but take offence. But there were whole other categories. He had tentatively classified them as:

(A)  Lord Vetinari’s innocuous personal habits, and timekeeping

(B)   Lord Vetinari’s social calendar

(C)   Business matters concerning the various Guilds

(D)  Trade negotiations with Uberwald, Genua and Quirm.

(E)   Treaty wrangling with Klatch.

(F)   Watch business

(G)  Staff composition at the Palace, at all levels

They filed neatly, but a pattern thus far refused to reveal itself. He shifted uncomfortably, only to draw a roar of protest from his abused back, and send a shooting pain down his left arm. It prompted, unbidden, a memory he had rather not remember. Of course, he had many memories he had rather not: generally, they stayed filed away where they were supposed to, and, generally, they were all firmly stuck in a category labelled ‘distant past’. But this one, this one was far more recent. And it was the only one that not only involved Lord Vetinari, but that Lord Vetinari was, in a certain sense, the cause of. It had happened shortly after he had returned to duty after being injured during the business with the imposter, which had resulted in Lord Vetinari being accused of his attempted murder. Neither of them had said anything about that when the business was finally cleared up. There had been no need.

“Ah, Drumknott, I have a new file for you. I’ve been meaning to give it to you for some time.” He had turned at the door of the Oblong Office, curious. It was late; a late Offle evening, in that exceedingly cold winter, and his arm ached, still.

“Sir?” A slim volume was extended; it was matte black, unmarked and unlabelled. His fingers gave a little subconscious twist of desire.

“Something a little…unusual.” Wary, curious, he reached for it. Vetinari didn’t let go straightaway, and, for a moment, their fingertips touched. Vetinari’s were very cool, almost chilly. He looked up to meet an equally cool gaze, a serious expression. “Don’t file it away with any of the others, Drumknott. I want you to memorise it. Do you understand?” He hesitated.

“The instructions sir, yes, but not the reason.” And Vetinari had smiled, ever so slightly.

“You will, when you need to.” His fingers slipped away from the folder.

“Yes, sir,” turning to go once more, burning to open it.

“Drumknott.” He turned back. Lord Vetinari was still smiling, looking slightly up at him from steepled fingers. “The file is for you alone. Nobody else. Keep it safe.”

“Sir.” Already he was clutching it protectively against his chest.

He took it back to his room, and read it secretively, as though it were some illicit material. But it wasn’t. Not as such, anyway. It was a detailed list of Lord Vetinari’s personal habits, from the time he got up in the morning to his preferred foods to the colour of his socks*, and a slightly more detailed biography than was generally made public. And he still hadn’t understood. He had been working for Vetinari long enough that he knew most of these things anyway, knew them like the back of his hand, long enough that he instantly spotted the one tiny, innocuous error. It preyed on his mind so much that eventually, a week later, he finally broached it with the Patrician, whilst Vetinari was perusing his morning copy of _The Times_.

“Sir, that file you gave me the other week…the personal one.”

“Mmm..”

“There’s…a mistake in it.” Vetinari paused and fixed him with an intent look over the top of the paper.

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. Specifically, it states in section 12 that you usually rise at 6:30am in the morning.”

“Yes?” Drumknott was briefly nonplussed.

“Well…you don’t. It’s 6:20am.”

“Is it? Ah, well then,” Vetinari said, as if he didn’t know himself, “Well no matter, what’s ten minutes?”

“But – “ Drumknott protested, aware that he almost never overruled the Patrician in one of his statements, “ – It’s wrong,” he finished, lamely. Vetinari carefully folded the paper and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Should I correct it?” Drumknott added, in the face of that silence.

“Well, if you feel the need,” Vetinari had said, and he’d left, utterly perplexed by the whole exercise. He’d dithered for ages over whether to change what was written in the file – and eventually, since Vetinari had _seemed_ to imply he shouldn’t, he’d just left it as it was. After all, he _knew_ the correct value anyway, so what did it matter if what was written down was incorrect?  Nevertheless, the error gnawed away at him, for quite some time, but, in the end, he’d forgotten about it. Now, it came back to him – and it still made no sense.

 

*black


	12. Chapter 12

Vimes had eventually gone home after seeing the Patrician, trudging wearily and automatically through the streets. He’d prised his boots off at the door, gone more quietly up the stairs and into the darkened bedroom. Sybil had murmured something in her sleep, and turned over. He lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Yarsley and trying not to. Thinking of a man having god only knew what done to him to make him talk, whilst he, Vimes, lay safe in his bed – and trying not to, again. Thinking of money. He shouldn’t have confronted Vetinari about Yarsley. He should have asked him about _money_. Trade negotiations, treaties, whatever it was that involved money that Drumknott would know and that would make someone with no scruples a lot of money. He turned onto his side with a sigh. That would have been pointless too; he doubted he had the sort of mind that could sift that information from all the papers in the Oblong Office, even if he was up to speed on things; the Patrician did, and surely, even _he_ would have said something if he’d thought of it.

Sometime around 5am Vimes gave up and trudged back to the Watch House, arriving with a foul temper and a strong need for coffee and tobacco. He’d hardly been in his office ten minutes though, contemplating whether Carrot might just have a tiny point, and if he should face up to digging out the old files on Yarsley – wherever the hell they might be – when Carrot knocked urgently on his door.

“I was about to send a runner to your house. Think we’ve got something sir,” he said, without preamble, and Vimes waved at him to continue.

“Constable Downspout reported strange activity at one of the addresses down in the turnwise warehouse district, sir. One man leaving occasionally in the day for food supplies, never seen going to work. Another left once in the night, again not to work. Otherwise it’s suspiciously quiet. Corporal Sally followed him and he met with someone; looked to be a Genuan merchant but couldn’t say for sure, and he took a different route home. She said he had a small bloodstain on his trousers; looked fresh. I had Pessimal look up the tenancy; it’s a single occupancy end of terrace house, sir, three floors including basement, has had several different tenants over the past five years, but all respectable working class families. There’s just one name on the tenancy now, a man’s, not on our watchlists, and apparently only those two gentlemen in there. Been there about three months.”

“Probably up to no good anyway, even if they’re not the ones we’re looking for,” Vimes mused.

“Angua’s sniffing out the area,” Carrot reported, “She detected traces of coal dust from the same collier’s on the road but hasn’t dared get too close yet. She’s fairly certain if Mr Drumknott’s there then she’ll know it and will send a signal.”

“Good. Get everybody on standby with their assigned positions. She _doesn’t_ go in there alone. If these are the bastards we’re after, then I’m not taking a chance on anyone slipping away from us.” He hesitated a moment. “Inform Vetinari, but make sure it doesn’t get out to anyone else. Come on.”


	13. Chapter 13

Five hours and thirteen minutes. They had left him longer this time. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because they had other things to worry about, like the Watch tracking them down (a man could hope). Or perhaps they knew the effectiveness of leaving a terrified man alone in the dark with just his thoughts, and his pain, for company. And his memories. He could see the headmaster’s office, materialising out of the gloom of the cellar. The real one, not Turfhook’s reconstruction. How did Turfhook know about that anyway? _No one_ knew. He’d never told anyone. Not even his own mother had known, insulated and isolated as she was, out in the Ramtops. No one except the Patrician. It was something never spoken of between them. One of many things, he was beginning to realise, that hung unspoken between them. These people…these people who had taken him, they had obviously done their homework – he grimaced at the unintentional pun – they had dug it out from somewhere, buried like a rotting bone, and thought to themselves: ‘We can use this’. The bastards. He wondered about the other boys; the ones he’d called friends; the ones he hadn’t. He couldn’t place Turfhook’s face, but then, he could be playing a role someone else had instructed him in. That thought frightened him: he didn’t want that _someone else_ to appear.

There was a lot of time for such thoughts, in the dark. He wondered, again, what Vetinari had thought, when Drumknott’s CV had first crossed his desk. What, precisely, he knew. Wondered whether, in the way of the man, Vetinari had thought to himself, ‘I can use this,’ and felt ashamed of himself for thinking it. He’d _trusted_ Vetinari. But he also knew there was something he was missing, something the Patrician had seen, and, at very least, thought, ‘One day, this will come in useful.’ He wondered what he was thinking now. What he was feeling.

Five hours and twenty-eight minutes. Every time he tried to move the dried blood on his back cracked open and oozed anew. The fingers were their own, throbbing misery, sending shooting pains up through his wrist. The fingers…had been broken before. He tried to think, again, to really think, to go through all the questions, to sift them for a pattern, a clue, something that would give him a way forward, that didn’t mean just being brave and refusing to answer, but all he heard was, “Does Lord Vetinari like to bugger you over the desk?”, grotesque parody of a nasty history, and all he saw was the dormitory at Yarsley, and the headmaster’s office.

Five hours and forty-seven minutes. He was thirsty. He’d learnt the teacher’s movements, their habits, their preferences, their…timekeeping. After a while, he hadn’t even had to look at his watch. He’d memorised every detail, became adept at anticipating their behaviour. He’d learnt fast, that could always be said for him. He’d become skilled at disappearing when he needed to,  learnt the secret places to hide. He’d learnt when not to go into the bathroom, and the way into the attics, unseen at midnight. Some had their favourites, but fortunately he wasn’t one of them, and there were plenty of boys to choose from; most of the time they didn’t even notice. They had their routines, and he had his. He’d learnt avoidance, and the abiding conviction that it was cowardice. The punishments one couldn’t avoid – the rest, from the worst of the teachers, he managed. His head jerked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and, for a moment, he couldn’t place _which_ stairs. They were coming for him, and he couldn’t hide this time. Six hours and – and about six hours. He never lost time. Not ordinarily. He was going to have to start answering their questions, and then he thought to himself: _6:20am_ , the time Lord Vetinari usually rose in the morning, and at last he understood, and wondered if he was brave enough after all.


	14. Chapter 14

Vimes checked his watch, impatient to be getting on: 6:20am. It would soon start getting light, which would make it that much harder to surprise the culprits. The warehouse district was beginning to wake up for the first shift on the docks, and a few people were already out and about on the streets. He and Carrot were loitering inconspicuously at a junction two blocks down from their target. “He’s there,” Angua reported, breathlessly, as she met them. “I’m sure of it. Same blood trace.”

“Alive?” She hesitated.

“I think so, but the blood trace is rather strong.”

“Basement?” Vimes queried.

“Mostly, but also the middle floor.” Vimes swore.  

“Can you tell where he is now?” Angua shook her head.

“It’s too muddled. The two men are there as well, plus at least one other, I think.”

“Should we not go in sir?” Carrot asked urgently, “Every minute counts.”

“Not yet,” Vimes muttered, “Downspout said the place had been discreetly fortified. All the windows have wooden shutters on the inside and metal ones on the outside; the side gate is thick iron and seven feet high. Possibly there’s a basement entrance round the back but you’d have to get over that gate, and the back door’s probably barricaded. I’d lay odds on there being a double entrance door at the front too. If we go in, we have to be able to do it fast, so they don’t have time to kill him.”

“I can get over that gate,” Angua offered, “As can Sally.”

“Huh,” grunted Vimes, “I’m tempted to get Detritus down here to just smash his way in, but if we can do it quietly – “ he broke off as Corporal Sally came running over.

“I thought you were watching the house!” he hissed, angry.

“I left Dorfl on it,” she replied, then handed him a note. “I just got handed this by a gentleman with a penchant for black clothes and a silk scarf over his face.”

 _He is there. I can pick the locks, quietly,_ it said, in a flourishy hand with entirely too many swirls around the letters for Vimes’ liking.

“Bloody assassins!” he swore, fuming. He knew he shouldn’t have told Vetinari; trust the man to interfere and take control of his, _Vimes’_ , operation, without consulting him, risking screwing everything up.

“I think he’s waiting,” Sally said, cautiously.

“All right,” Vimes said, “You and Angua, get over that side gate, and get our assassin boy over too if you need to. Let him get the locks on the back door and you creep in quietly. Your priority is to get Mr Drumknott out alive; one of you do that and the other go after the suspects. Igor’s waiting round the corner, with a carriage. At some point you’ll run into them – when you do, raise the alarm. Carrot and I will charge through the front, Dorfl and Reg through the back. We’ve got the place surrounded, so they shouldn’t get far if they get out. If you run into problems before you encounter them, one of you come back out and tell me.” He took a deep breath. “ **Go**.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some use of sexual swear words here. This was not an easy chapter to write.

“How many Palace guards are currently on duty at any one time?”

“I don’t know,” _That’s not the answer they want_. It must be getting light outside but the basement was dark around him, just one sputtering oil lamp hanging from the far wall. They were all down here, as Turfhook, sitting on an upturned barrel, barraged him with questions.

“Does the Patrician intend to make a state visit to Uberwald this summer?”

“I don’t know.” _That’s not the answer they want either._ His back burned. His fingers burned. His shoulders burned from hanging there.

“Does Lord Vetinari prefer you to suck his cock, or does he like to fuck you up the arse?” _Don’t let them distract you. Not any more._ He didn’t know how long they’d been asking questions. It felt like forever. So many questions. But there was a pattern, a pattern filing itself in his mind.

“Neither.”

“Has the Guild of Merchants petitioned Lord Vetinari to lower the duty rate on imports from Genua?” He didn’t know what time it was, how long it had been. There wasn’t much more time left. He had lost it. Lost the minutes. Hadn’t they asked that question before? Was this the one he answered or the one he didn’t? A slap across the face and he jerked back to stinging alertness.

“What,” he gasped, “What was the question?”

“Has the Guild of Merchants petitioned Lord Vetinari to lower the duty rate on imports from Genua?”

“Yes…” They were circling it now. They’d asked that question three times before. Time to talk. 

“Will he do it?”

“He – he hasn’t decided.” _But I know what he’ll say. He’ll say No._ He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did.He had to believe that Vetinari would find a way save him. Somehow. He had to trust. Or he had nothing.

“So does he actually let you fuck him then?” _To fuck or be fucked, was it? This man does not understand normal relationships. He thinks in terms of power, and control; the user, and the used…_

“What?” _Don’t get distracted!_ Another blow across his face, and his vision faded out briefly; he heard a sharp word from Turfhook, possibly a reprimand.

“ **Do. You. Fuck. Lord. Vetinari?”** _Gods, this was absurd. Grotesque._

“No,” through gritted teeth. He was damned if he was giving them that. Damned if they would have that satisfaction.

“Loyalty then,” Turfhook said, unexpectedly right next to his ear, and he flinched at the proximity. “What does he do to deserve it?” Turfhook continued, in a sibilant whisper, as a finger stroked down his cheek, making him shudder. “Well we know where that came from, eh, _boy?_ Does it still feel like he deserves it, after you’ve been here so long? He’s abandoned you, and why shouldn’t he? You’re not worth the trouble. He’ll find another one. He’ll get a replacement. It’ll be…an inconvenience. But that’s all.” _No,_ Drumknott thought to himself, discovering, after all, that it was possible to feel more pain, that the soul persisted in believing things it had no proof of. But that was what humans did.

“Is it true the Patrician is actually a vampire?” _What?_ Blindsided again, with a new question.

“No.” _Don’t get distracted._

“Will Lord Vetinari approve the Guild of Cunning Artificers for the restoration of the Ankh-Morpork Post Office?” _Not this one._

“Probably,” he hazarded a guess, starting to feel almost giddy.

“Why?”

“They’re sore,” he panted, struggling to get the words out, “Lost out last contract. Need appeasing.”

“Is the Quirmian ambassador planning to announce his retirement at the upcoming ambassadorial ball? _What time is it?_

“Yes.”

“Is it true that Vetinari has no balls?” A strangled laugh, in spite of himself. _What time is it Drumknott?_

“Will the Guild of Vintners preferentially import Genuan or Ephebian wine this year?” _6:30am,_ he thought.

“Genuan,” he said, and wasn’t sure why.

“Are you sure you don’t suck Lord Vetinari’s cock?”

“Oh for – “ Another blow exploded across his face, with a strange sound like splintering wood, and for a second he blacked out, then came round to see a huge, wolflike form taking a flying leap at the man who had hit him. The lamp at the back of the room was swinging crazily on its hook, rendering, to his dazed vision, a _danse macabre_ of contorted figures, fighting or fleeing; there was loud yelling all around. Then Turfhook was suddenly there, right in front of him, a wicked knife in his hand and an unspeakable rage on his face.

“Have – !” he choked out, but Turfhook was falling, gurgling blood, his own knife in the side of his neck, and there was someone else, someone next to him, face pressed close, fiddling with the manacles –

– _lock,_ he had time to think, before his arms slipped free and his legs gave way beneath him in a rush of pain; but a pair of strong arms carried him up before he hit the floor.


	16. Chapter 16

They brought Drumknott back out through the side gate, unconscious; Dorfl was carrying him.

“Gods, what a mess,” Vimes said, sucking a bruised knuckle, and still panting heavily from his aborted chase, “Get Igor to go with him to Dr Lawn. Fast as you can.”

“That’s everybody bar one, sir,” Carrot reported, jogging up. He didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be out of breath, Vimes thought, vaguely disgusted. “It was a close thing. They had five men inside. Three must never have left the house. Two are dead, and we have two others in custody, but, respectfully sir, they’re just the hired muscle. I doubt we’ll get much from them.” Vimes swore.

“I chased out the other one, with our assassin boy, but he got up onto the rooftops and I lost him – dunno about the assassin.”

“We got one imp from downstairs, but I think our escapee got at least one as well,” Carrot said, gravely. “The others say that the one who was asking the questions is dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“The Assassin, sir.”

“Which _one?_ “ growled Vimes. “I could distinctly swear that I saw two in there. For a moment anyway.” _And one of them moved like a – like a really good Assassin._

“Yes sir, but Angua says he would have stabbed Mr Drumknott otherwise.”

“Huh.” A sneaking, paranoid suspicion formed itself in his mind, happily laying an egg where many suspicions had feathered the nest before it. “Get word to the Patrician. Don’t clacks it. Send Buggy flying there immediately. He sees the Patrician and tells him face to face. Nothing less and nobody else. Fast as he can, and report back to me afterwards.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m going to take a look around. Get that sorry lot back to the Watch house and we’ll see what we can get out of them. If they prove uncooperative, offer them a chance to chat with his Lordship instead. That ought to loosen their tongues.” _And probably their bowels,_ he thought, somewhat viciously.

He wandered into the house, entering through the back door and down into the basement, as the others had. Chains in the wall and bloodstains on it, he noted, distastefully. A purely functional room. He went up the stone steps into the kitchen. Someone had a fondness for Klatchian coffee, but that didn’t mean much. Lots of people did. Another purely functional room – they all were. Whoever it was had set this up wasn’t a fool. There were three occupied bedrooms; two with two beds in each, one with only one. No personal effects of any kind. Barely anything. The room on the top floor was different though. He puzzled over it for a moment, before it suddenly clicked; it was like a headmaster’s office, like _the_ headmaster’s office, all that time ago. Right down to the desk, the noticeboard and the globe in the corner. And the cane on the desk. A cold and angry feeling came over him. Few others currently present in the Watch would recognise it. Carrot had been right after all – at least in some respect. And now he, Vimes, had to go and explain… _this_ to Lord Vetinari. Had to ask Drumknott about it, assuming the man recovered and didn’t succumb to his wounds, or infection.

He was entirely unsurprised to find, when Buggy reported back, that he had found Lord Vetinari eating breakfast when he’d flown to the Palace. He pulled open the desk drawers, and found more recording imps. 


	17. Chapter 17

Awareness, as was common to those whose brain cells were swimming in a happy soup of the medical profession’s finest* concoctions, didn’t so much return slowly for Rufus Drumknott, as find itself accidentally present, with no idea how it had got there, or, indeed, exactly where ‘there’ was. It loitered around uncertainly for a little bit, wondering if it had actually got an appointment, and if it had, whether it had accidentally gone to the wrong place, before a very familiar voice said,

“Go back to sleep, Rufus,” and it seemed to him that doing exactly what it said was also very familiar, so that was what he did.

Lord Vetinari looked slightly askance at his once-more completely unconscious secretary, then returned his attention to his papers. The seasonal outbreak of flu had filled the hospital, and Dr Lawn had felt it would be safer to move Drumknott back to the Palace, carefully quarantined, to avoid his taking sick. Sicker, anyway. He was running a nasty fever as it was. Lawn was keeping him lightly sedated for now; apparently the doctor had asked Vimes rather heatedly about the provenance of some of the _older_ injuries, and then quietly suggested that perhaps Drumknott might feel a little more comfortable back at home. So Vimes had put him back in a cart, heavily guarded, and brought him back to the Patrician, because clearly he didn’t know where else counted as home. His clerk, and a solemn report, which had left Lord Vetinari with a distinct dilemma, one in which he would have to tread carefully – one in which Vimes clearly thought it was not, in fact, _his_ job to be the one to tread carefully. Perhaps, indeed, he had been right in that. But that was not a problem that could be addressed at this moment in time, so he dismissed it from his mind.

It was quite refreshing working here. Quite…peaceful. Although he was beginning to understand how the habit of sleep could be catching; Drumknott’s soft, slow breaths had added themselves to the familiar cadences of Wuffles’ snoring somewhere down by his feet, and the room was warm. He turned over the page, not without another measured glance at the sleeping clerk, noting his rising colour with a certain clinical detachment, and a slight frown. This would take some time and, perhaps, he considered…then paused to actually ponder…yes, perhaps something more definitive than that would not go amiss.

Rufus woke again, with the startled jerk of someone who has just had an unpleasant dream and leapt out of it without looking. It was pitch black, wherever he was, and for a ghastly, dismal, minute, he thought it might still be the cellar, but then rationality reasserted itself. He was lying comfortably in bed, albeit with frightened, feverish sweat cooling on his skin. Dim, dark lumps of furniture were faintly visible in the night-shrouded room. A shadow unfolded itself from a chair next to him, and for a moment, he felt, or imagined he felt, a cool, long-fingered hand pressed to his brow. He knew that hand, that tall, angular form. He knew the faint scent that attended it and the muted rustle of robes as it moved.

“Go back to sleep, Rufus,” the shadow said, and his fear subsided as it refolded itself back into the chair. Vetinari was still here, and that was good, Rufus reasoned, because if _he_ was here, then no nightmares would _dare_ come into the room.

The third time Rufus woke, he actually managed to get his eyes open and his wits assembled at the same time, to discover himself, happily, tucked up securely in his bed in his quarters in the Palace. His bandaged hand rested lightly on the coverlets in front of him; it had been casted from wrist to fingertips, somewhat over-enthusiastically, he couldn’t help but think. It felt warm, and he couldn’t move a finger, but there wasn’t any pain. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. A few birds were singing in the Palace gardens outside, and the morning sunlight was coming through the window and dappling the room, only to get sucked into the dusty darkness of the Patrician’s robes, where he sat somewhat incongruously by the bed, just setting aside some papers.

“---!” Drumknott exclaimed, struggling to sit up properly; various body parts protested this treatment in no uncertain terms. He was sure he had meant to say “Sir”, but it had come out as a croak. Silently, Vetinari took hold of his upper arms, and hauled him up firmly, propping him against the pillows, slightly on his side, then held a glass of water to his mouth. He managed to lift his head and gulped some down, trying not to make unseemly slurps, whilst his arms made half-hearted attempts to reach the glass for himself. He was acutely aware of the other cool hand at his shoulderblades, still supporting him. He was wearing nothing on his upper body but swathes of bandages. And besides, the Patrician really should not be doing this for him, like some sort of nursemaid. It was patently ridiculous, and entirely not correct. He was the _Patrician,_ for goodness’ sake. Something about this seemed important, but it didn’t want to come through the fog in his brain, and it made him think of socks, which was made no sense whatsoever.

“Sir,” he managed, more in his normal voice, when the glass was finally put down. More than that, however, didn’t want to come out. He thought he felt a brief squeeze of his shoulder, then Lord Vetinari simply resettled in his chair and resumed reading his papers, as if this had always been his office. Rufus lay back down, exhausted, his eyes closing again. He could hear the soft thumbing and turning of pages next to him, one after the other; sure, unhurried, and continuous. He thought perhaps it was the most comforting sound in the world.

“Go back to sleep, Rufus,” said Vetinari, but the words were all but unheard; Drumknott had anticipated that order too.

 

*For a definition of “finest” which mostly meant ‘of exotic and dubious, not to mention expensive, provenance’


	18. Chapter 18

The following morning Drumknott felt well enough to sit up – or rather, gingerly prop up on his side again – and have a little breakfast. The Patrician came in unannounced just as he was finishing.

“Ah Drumknott, you’re awake, good. How are you feeling?” he asked, as he sat down and poured himself a cup of tea, topping up Drumknott’s own cup.

“Uncomfortable,” Rufus admitted, with a bit of a grimace.

“I would imagine so,” said Vetinari, with the slightest trace of a sympathetic wince, “Although Dr Lawn seems confident that you will make a full recovery.” He took a measured sip of tea, not saying anything else; steam curled lazily in the morning light coming through the window.

“I suppose Commander Vimes would like a word with me,” Rufus said, glumly, correctly interpreting the silence as meaning that the Patrician wanted _him_ to say something about the whole… _incident_ first.

“A reasonable supposition, although I must say he is not exhibiting his usual enthusiasm for taking a statement.” Drumknott considered this. Vimes knew about Yarsley then. He’d been in the Watch long enough that it was possible he’d been there, but even he hadn’t, he would have known about it, would have seen that room, that mockup of the headmaster’s office. Yes, Vimes would have added things up, and, despite the man’s occasional obtuseness, he was unlikely to have added them up wrong.

“I assume that there were recording imps,” he ventured.

“The Commander has them impounded,” Vetinari informed him, on a sip of tea, “He has not listened to them yet, however, and nor have I.” Another sip. “I was not convinced of the necessity; not, at least, without hearing your opinion on the matter first.” _Thank god,_ thought Drumknott, and had to put the cup down, because his hand was shaking. Vetinari was pointedly not looking at him, for which he was intensely grateful, because his face was burning with the memory of the humiliation. Of what they had asked about Lord Vetinari. What they had accused.

“I…there is nothing on there that would lead you to the perpetrators directly,” he managed to get out, “But you will probably discern something in the pattern of their questions.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he admitted, wondering why the question provoked a sudden swell of resentment in him, “Eventually…but – I can’t remember it, my lord, I’m sorry. You will – you may have to listen to it yourself. Vimes won’t be able to tell.”

“Perhaps it will come back to you, but nevertheless, I think we can leave the matter rest for now,” Vetinari said, mildly. He got up, abruptly, “As I think you need to. The Commander will be by later.” With that, he left, leaving Drumknott slightly bewildered. Surely there was more to say? But perhaps the Patrician did not want to press him, not so soon. He lay back and closed his eyes. Everything had changed, in all the wrong ways.

Commander Vimes did indeed come by later, personally, looking grim and haggard, and like he hadn’t shaven for days.

“I’m not sure if you recall, Mr Drumknott, but the man who referred to himself as Turfhook was killed during your rescue.” Drumknott recalled quite vividly; one didn’t forget a man with a knife sticking out of his neck in a hurry.

“The Assassin..?” he murmured, questioningly, precipitating a dark frown on Vimes’ face.

“Yes,” the Commander said, dryly, “The _Assassin_. Or Assassins. Although it seems he saved your life, and his Lordship has told me to let it alone. Anyway, Turfhook was in fact called Arthur Longfield. Ring any bells?” Drumknott frowned.

“Not…really.”

“He was a student at Yarsley between UC 1966-70, and a prefect for his last two years there.” Drumknott remembered the prefects. All too well. Vimes handed him a school photograph; the rugby team. He shook his head.

“I was there for that last year, but I don’t remember him. I was only ten then. I don’t think we had any interaction.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Vimes said. “Don’t expect he gave any clue as to who hired him either.”

“No,” Drumknott said, struggling with confusing emotions, “Why…why do you suppose he did...all that?” Vimes shrugged, but his face was sympathetic.

“Considering his probable history, he may not have been very capable of holding down more regular, legal employment.” He sighed, and ran a hand over rasping stubble. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. I can tell you, as a policeman, that of the sons of fathers who beat their wives, about half grow up to beat their own wives. And about half never lift a finger against a soul.”

“What makes the difference?” A thin smile.

“A good influence, perhaps, an early rescue…if I knew these things, I could change them.”

“Lord Vetinari said you hadn’t listened to the imps yet.”

“Should I?” Vimes had the courtesy to ask. Yes, everybody was tiptoeing around him. This was as much about Yarsley as it was his interrogation. Nevertheless, he shook his head.

“I saw a pattern in their questions, eventually, but I can’t remember it. Lord Vetinari would but – I’d rather he didn’t have to.” The Watchman nodded at that.

“Well, it’ll probably come back to you,” said Vimes, echoing the Patrician, if he but knew it. _What if it doesn’t?_ Drumknott thought, worried. Vimes got up, with his usual abruptness, “I’ll send someone round tomorrow, maybe the day after. We’re still chasing down a lot of information. We may have more to go on by then.”

“Yes. Please thank your staff for me, particularly Sergeant Angua. And thank you, Commander.”

“My job,” was all Vimes said, on his way out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A slightly lighter tone for this chapter, but I'm afraid we're not out of the woods yet)

Drumknott had heard that there was a new branch of the medical profession which specialised in helping people deal with current emotional….difficulties, let’s call them, or past emotional trauma. He held no truck with the idea – didn’t these people have _friends?_ (in the uneasy way that someone who would never speak about such things even to their closest friends often had about the idea of discussing it with strangers). Currently, however, he was discovering the unexpected benefit of what might be termed Carrot Therapy*. The Captain had dropped round the next morning; there was nothing of note to report on the investigation, and Drumknott half-suspected that Vimes had sent Carrot just to see if he would be more forthcoming with him, or had remembered anything overnight. Or that Captain Carrot was just being Captain Carrot.

It hadn’t begun well. The Captain had entered with his usual irrepressible optimism tempered by grave solicitude, which Rufus had found intensely irritating (no matter how naturally likeable the man was). However, after an overdone expression of concern for his wellbeing (“You must say at once if you don’t feel up to talking Mr Drumknott. Or if you don’t want to talk about it!”) he’d immediately mellowed when, “How glad we are all to have you back,” was swiftly followed by, “His Lordship was terribly upset sir, he dragged Commander Vimes straight down here not half an hour after you disappeared, so he did.” To which the only sensible response was the one he gave.

“Uh, right.”

“Oh yes,” Carrot continued earnestly, leaning forward in his seat, “Now I know Lord Vetinari is not what you might call the most expressive man but he was quite beside himself, very out of sorts.” Drumknott tried not to smile, since that wasn’t quite the appropriate response, and suddenly – suddenly it occurred to him that he finally had someone to confide in about the source of his outrage. Well, one of them, the one that reeked of the greatest injustice, somehow.

“They said the most dreadful things about Lord Vetinari,” he said, before he’d even quite decided to say it.

“What things?” Carrot asked, his face a study in sympathy.

“They – they kept asking me the most awful questions!”

“I am sure they did sir, but you don’t have to tell me about them if you don’t want to.”

“They kept accusing Lord Vetinari of – of taking liberties with his staff!” Drumknott blurted out, automatically rephrasing it diplomatically. Diplomatic or not, Carrot looked absolutely scandalised.

“Oh surely not sir!”

“The most dreadful improprieties, Captain, I assure you. Crimes, in fact.”

“That’s terrible!” Carrot cried, “Why his Lordship is the most honorable man in the city, excepting the Commander of course. He would never do any such thing.”

“Well quite.”

“That really is too bad. Just because his Lordship is a batchelor people will say the most awful things, and when he works so hard for the city too…”

“I know. You can imagine how distressing that was.”

“It really is too bad…” Carrot repeated, and launched into a soliloquy about the Patrician’s sterling qualities. People paid real money for this sort of thing; Drumknott was feeling better already and it was totally free.

 

*As opposed to carrot therapy, an unusual diet fad which had briefly caused several of the upper class to turn orange


	20. Chapter 20

Sleep did not come easily, once the sedative and painkillers had been scaled back. Once he was starting to feel more human again, at least in some ways. He’d wanted to ask Dr Lawn for more, but had felt too embarrassed. He wanted to forget everything that had happened, but at the same time, he knew that he had to remember what it was he’d said – because otherwise, Lord Vetinari was going to have to listen to those imps. And then he’d know, and then there’d be no hiding from it. All those unspoken things. All that careful distance they’d maintained – to this day, he couldn’t say whether it was him or Vetinari who had created that distance, or both of them – but they would have to confront it, with those ugly lies on the recordings; not to mention the way that his lordship, for some reason that yet eluded Rufus, had closed down some of that distance since his return.

He lay there dozing, late one night, trying to drop back off after a nightmare; too many images played through his mind, chaotically. Like a disorganised sock drawer, it was, he couldn’t help but think, ruefully. No, more like a ransacked filing cabinet. How long would it take to put everything back the way it was supposed to be? Was that even possible? He woke a little more fully, suddenly aware that something had changed, and propped himself up on an elbow. There was a deeper darkness in the darkness by the chair. Something inside him uncoiled a little; something else tightened. He lay back down with a sigh. Too many unspoken things, that he just couldn’t face right now.

“I know,” he said, to the darkness in the chair, “Go back to sleep.” He closed his eyes. “Bring me something in the morning,” he murmured, already drifting off, “Something to work on. Something else to think about.” There was no reply, but there didn’t need to be.

The next morning the Patrician brought in the minutes from the quarterly Guilds Business Meeting. It was hardly taxing, but it was something, and Rufus leafed through it eagerly.

“You have a quite remarkable quantity of grapes there, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari observed, taking his habitual seat next to the bedside; Wuffles curled up on his feet.

“Please help yourself. Captain Carrot brought them. I think he estimated the quantity required based on his own appetite.”

“How thoughtful.” Rufus suddenly laughed at something he read.

“I take it that you have noticed Mrs Palm’s somewhat indelicate observation about the nobility on page three.”

“I can hear it exactly.” Vetinari smiled, faintly, and popped a grape in his mouth. Rufus frowned, suddenly.

“Drumknott?”

“I take it that the Guild of Vintners is going to be preferentially importing Ephebian wine, as opposed to Genuan this year?” It was Vetinari’s turn to frown.

“I must say, your speed-reading has always been unparalleled, but even you, I am sure, cannot read the future,” he observed.

Drumknott raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t, obviously, but it stands to reason. You are not going to lower the duty import on the Genuan trade…”

“Am I not? I was not aware that I had quite made that decision; certainly not publically.”

“No,” Drumknott said, his heart racing as it suddenly all made sense, “The Guild of Merchants petitioned for you to lower the duty import from Genua, but manufacturing report 32C, from a year ago, demonstrated the widespread adoption of a new Dwarf mechanism in their household goods factories that increased production 23% whilst simultaneously reducing costs 10%. This means that they are ahead of their competitors, and, given the increased demand for small manufactured goods such as pots and pans, due to the continued expansion of the city, and also partly because of the rebuilding in Wharfinger Street and Welcome Soap areas, as a consequence of the winter flooding, they will be able to swamp the market, undercut their competitors and establish a monopoly. So you won’t do it. Somebody was probably bribed to push that motion through; as I recall the vote within the Guild was fairly evenly split. One of those who voted against, however, were the Guild of Vintners, because of the poor summer weather in Genua, which led to a bad grape harvest and subsequent rise in the price, and reduction in the quality, of this year’s wine. They will almost certainly preferentially import Ephebian wine, which is cheaper, and gaining in popularity amongst the aspiring middle classes. They’ll mark up the Genuan wine and blame the frozen duty import; if it was reduced, they’d lose out on some of the advantage, of course, which somebody in the know could make quite a profit from.” There was, comparatively, a long pause whilst the Patrician digested this monologue and Drumknott paused to collect his feverishly re-arranging thoughts. “How unfortunate that I told them the opposite.”

“Drumknott, you excel yourself,” came the reply at last, and the blue eyes were shining.

“Actually, it’s quite clear, when you have all the data, and look – look for the patterns.” _And if you knew the Patrician as well as I do, of course._ He reached for the water glass, his throat gone dry.

“Nevertheless, to think of such whilst – Drumknott, your hands are shaking.”

“And once I told them what they wanted to know, they would have killed me. Except that Commander Vimes got there first.” He had to put the water glass down.

“They would have asked other questions, and come back to it several times, to be sure,” Vetinari said, quietly.

“6:30am!” Drumknott suddenly blurted, feeling a surge of rage, and tried to rein it in, to be dispassionate, like the Patrician, “You gave me the means to be _useful,_ but not the means to save myself.” There it was, the core of it, that well of resentment he’d felt before. Vetinari needed no further explanation of what he was referring to.

“Mr Drumknott. The file gave you information which was totally extraneous but would lead to an impression of a more particular knowledge than anyone else would possess. Should you ever find yourself in such a position, it would increase your worth in their eyes, convince them that you would know whatever it was they wanted, even if, in fact, you did not. The error, yes, was a suggestion that you plant a deliberate falsehood if you thought it would yield results further down the line.”

“’Yield results!’” he exclaimed, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Rufus – “ Vetinari began, shifting in his seat.

“Don’t you Mr Drumknott me one minute and Rufus the next,” he said, warningly, “Not over this. Not now.” He got a measured look for that. And returned it, even whilst half of him couldn’t quite believe that he’d said that. _It’s too late. And you can’t be the Patrician in here. You haven’t been since I’ve got back._ Vetinari ran a brief hand over his face.

“Should I have had you trained as a dark clerk?” the Patrician said at last, “A fruitless endeavour, and one that you would never have wished for yourself. It was to maximise the chances of keeping you _alive._ Long enough to be found, which I calculated could be done with a high probability of success, in less than three days, no matter the circumstances. It was itself only a last resort, a backup measure. You were protected as much as possible without imprisoning you myself.” Rufus waited, trying to get his emotions back in check. “If it is an apology you want, then I sincerely offer it. That you were taken despite my precautions…was an oversight on my part.” A dark laugh from Drumknott.

“And here I was thinking you were supposed to be infallible.” Another measured look, chin in hand.

“It is only necessary to project an air of infallibility, and to be so _nearly all_ of the time, for people to believe it. I always thought you knew better.” _I do,_ thought Drumknott, _But I also thought you would save me. Again._ He didn’t say anything. He’d said enough unspoken things for one day. Or nearly enough.

“I don’t know why I told them the wrong answer,” he said at last, “I gave them _an_ answer because I couldn’t take it any more. I was hardly lucid. I still can’t recall most of that last session in any detail…And I still don’t know whether I gave them the wrong answer because I trusted that you would rescue me in time, or because I believed that I would die, and thought that I might as well be _useful._ ”

“We did rescue you in time,” Vetinari said, quietly, “And it was – will be – useful. I will take care of that.” Another run of the hand over the face, not the usual thoughtful stroke of the beard he did, but, possibly, a sign of frustration. A brief shift in the chair. “I don’t know what it is you wish me to say.” That in itself was a rare admission, and Rufus didn’t know either; but he did know he had to get some distance from this. From him. He sagged back into the bed, arm across his face.

“I’m sure you have work demanding your attention,” he said at last, the edge of the anger lending a coldness to the tone. He was probably the only person who had ever dared to throw _Don’t let me detain you_ back into the Patrician’s face, with the possible exception of Vimes, but then Vetinari wasn’t _being_ the Patrician, was he? And he got up from the chair, a little stiffly.

“I’ll inform the Commander,” he said, quite calmly, as he walked towards the door, “Get some rest.” The dog trotted after him, looking back briefly, and then the door clicked shut.


	21. Chapter 21

Dr Lawn carefully unwound the rest of the bandages as Drumknott stood, a little unsteadily, and then, in the way of doctors, began experimentally prodding at him as if he were an unusual specimen of insect. Another week had passed; time slipping away from him. But he’d made his decision, and a reply to the clacks he had sent two days ago was sitting on his bedside table. Along with a sealed envelope.

“Hmm, well everything seems to be healing up nicely enough.” He went over and got a couple of jars out from his medical bag. “Put this salve on before you go to bed each night for about a week, until it’s completely cleared up. I’ll put some on now, might as well.” He busied himself applying it to his fingers and began rubbing it into the half-healed lashmarks on Drumknott’s back. Rufus tried not to flinch away from the contact. The ointment smelt antiseptic and was cool against his skin; it didn’t sting, well not much, but he didn’t like being touched there. Lord Vetinari hadn’t come in to see him again since the other day, although he did continue to send him reading material, via the other clerks, and Rufus suspected that he was, at least briefly, still coming into the room at night to check on his sleep. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

“What’s in the other jar?” he asked, in an effort to take his mind off the process. It was a different colour.

“More of an aftercare solution,” Lawn explained, glancing up at him briefly through his glasses. “I’ve found it can be useful for scarring. Helps keep the tissue supple, otherwise there’s a risk of it shrinking a little over time and inhibiting movement. Use it regularly and do a few stretching exercises and it should make a real difference.” His fingers travelled lower. Rufus went rigid. He couldn’t help it. Lawn stopped, and stood up. “You can apply it yourself,” he added, putting the jar down, “But obviously, it’s easier if someone else can do it, since it’s your back. Ask a… friend, if you don’t want to get a nurse round. I also know one or two very obliging young ladies who are bloody good at massages, which would certainly be my preference. You should keep applying it for at least a few months at any rate.”

“What about the cast?”

“I’d like to leave that on another week or so. I’m sure a couple of the small bones in your hand were fractured as well. Best to keep it immobile. I see your friends have signed it.”

“It’s mostly the other clerks.”

“That explains the uncommonly neat handwriting.” Lawn picked up Rufus’ shirt, as a soft knock sounded on the door, and Lord Vetinari walked straight in, to stop abruptly just inside the room, taking in the scenario before him. Rufus felt his ears flame, conscious of his half-dressed state.

“He can’t go back to work for at least another two weeks, your lordship,” Dr Lawn said, with brusque politeness, his gaze flickering briefly between them.

“Of course not,” the Patrician said, amicably enough. Methodically, Dr Lawn helped Rufus get his arm through the shirt, then began doing up the buttons for him. Over his shoulder, Rufus watched Vetinari take a half-step forward – and stop, fingers twitching briefly by his side. Lawn finished, and Rufus jammed the shirt into his trousers with uncharacteristic force.

“Call me if you need anything else. I will be out of town for a week or so, but any reasonably competent sawbones can take that cast off. Good day, Mr Drumknott, Lord Vetinari.” He swiftly fastened his bag and left.

“I was going to come and see you in your office, sir,” Drumknott said, walking stiffly over to the bedside table and picking up the envelope, “But since you’re here…” His heart was hammering, and he was sure Vetinari hadn’t failed to note the ‘sir’. It sounded so out of place in this room, after everything that had happened, but he didn’t think he could do this otherwise.

“Certainly no need for you to walk all that way,” Vetinari replied. When Rufus turned back to face him he was standing with both hands braced on his cane, his piercing eyes regarding him with some scrutiny. He reached out, offering the envelope. “What’s this?” Vetinari asked, looking at it but not taking it. Rufus had to swallow before he could speak.

“My resignation.” The eyes snapped back to meet his own. Lord Vetinari was not a man prone to fidgetting, or expansive movements, but now he became almost preternaturally still. Only his knuckles whitened slightly on the cane. “Vincent or Brian can manage,” Drumknott added, slightly tremulously. That got a thin smile.

“Both together, at a pinch, perhaps,” Vetinari said, his voice clipped, their gazes still locked, “But Drum – Rufus, you must know, you are irreplaceable.” His turn for a thin smile. It was the compliment he’d always wanted. The recognition of his value.

“I don’t – I don’t want a debate about this,” Rufus managed. _Because I’d lose, and then we’d never fix this._

“Very well,” Vetinari said, in a level tone that conveyed very clearly what he thought about the entire nature of this conversation.

“And I don’t…want to continue my convalescence here,” Rufus added, in a rush, before he could say anything else, “I’m going to stay with a friend for a bit.” Vetinari nodded, once. There was a long pause whilst he just stood there; there was a complexity of emotion about the eyes, the mouth, but it was far too subtle, too controlled still, for Rufus to read.

“Very well,” Vetinari said again, eventually, “I think a holiday would be a good idea. Go for a month. Longer if you want. You never use up your leave allowance anyway. But I will not open that envelope or  consider your decision final until after you come back.”

“All right,” Rufus agreed, handing him the offending article. For a moment, their fingertips touched, and he thought of the file. Vetinari’s fingers were warm, and reached for his, curling just slightly. _6:20am,_ he thought, and let go hastily, colour rising in his cheeks again.

“Kindly do not leave until tomorrow evening, at the earliest,” Vetinari said, businesslike, but with a weariness in his tone Rufus had not heard before, “I need to organise a guard. Where are you going?”

“Near Sto Lat.”

“And this friend?” A breath.

“We were at school together.” Another breath. “Yarsley.”

“I see.” Vetinari looked like he was going to say something else _(like what Drumknott: ‘have a nice holiday?’)_ but in the end, apparently lacking inspiration, he simply tucked the envelope into an inner pocket, turned on his heel and left.

 _Irreplaceable,_ thought Rufus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I am made of evil. And I'm afraid I'm going to keep you on tenterhooks for at least a couple of weeks because I decided to move house and fly abroad for a conference more or less at the same time, which was not one of my finest planning moments. But I promise I will update as soon as I can.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the tardiness of this update. As I mentioned before, I stupidly decided to jet off abroad for a conference and move house at the same time. And then I forgot that when I got back I would have to unpack everything, assemble furniture and would have no internet. ARGH! Just the one chapter for now, but order is slowly being restored from chaos, so next update will not take as long. Thank you sincerely for your patience.

Commander Vimes sat somewhat glumly outside the Oblong office whilst the Patrician kept him waiting for what appeared to be the obligatory fifteen minutes. He had nothing of substance to report on the investigation into Drumknott’s kidnapping. Somewhere, somehow, _someone,_ he knew, would be able to let him connect the links between the man who hired the man who spoke to the man who did business with the presumably wealthy bastard who had come up with the plan in the first place. He just hadn’t found them yet. And, of course, the Patrician _would_ want to see him now, when he had nothing new to say, and only one thing to say that was not going to please Vetinari if he said it. Which he would. Captain Carrot had accompanied him to the Palace, as he intended to pay a visit to Mr Drumknott, but Vimes was under no illusion that their conversation would suddenly provide the clue he was looking for, and, indeed Carrot was probably just being, well, Carrot, and paying a courtesy call.

A harried-looking clerk eventually showed him into the Oblong Office, where the Patrician sat safely behind several neat stacks of paper on the imposing desk.

“Ah, Commander Vimes, have a seat.”

“Sir,” said Vimes, resolutely standing, and staring at the wall. He had not been looking forward to this meeting. Vetinari steepled his fingers in front of his face and pointedly did not sigh.

“I wished to inform you, Commander, that you may as well step down your investigation into the culprits behind Mr Drumknott’s kidnapping.” Vimes lost interest in the wall.

“ _Why?_ ” he demanded, then added, as his eyes met that piercing gaze, “Sir.”

“Because they will reveal themselves in due course and save you the work,” Vetinari said simply. “Mr Drumknott has informed me that, in answering his kidnappers questions, he believes he provided them with some critical misinformation that they will almost certainly make use of.” Vimes frowned.

“Meaning…what, exactly?”

“Meaning that I would expect somebody to lose a substantial amount of money, very shortly, after making a somewhat imprudent investment. Hopefully they will do so with all due expediency, since I must give an answer to the Guild of Merchants as to whether I intend to lower the duty import on goods from Genua, and they will not be best pleased with what I am going to tell them.” Vimes knew he had no hope of disentangling whatever convoluted web of information had led to that conclusion. He focussed on a more immediate suspicion, the one thing that had tempered his reluctance about this appointment.

“They wouldn’t happen to _almost certainly make use of_ this information because your assassin boy, whoever he was, ‘accidentally’ lost track of the man who got away from that house, by any chance sir?” he asked, somewhat caustically. Vetinari steepled his fingers together.

“The report he provided suggested he did not, in fact, lose track of the man; he only seemed to, so that he could see where our escapee ran to.”

“You withheld this information from me!” Vetinari seemed to consider this for a moment, one finger tapping against the others, then:

“Hmm, yes. Yes I did.” Vimes glared. “It is an insurance that may prove useful in case someone does not, in fact, decide to make a certain financial investment; but I suspect that they will. They put a lot of time and money into this operation; it would be surprising if some emotion had not been inadvertently added to the mix. This morsel of information that they have been offered so far in return is, I suspect, too tempting for them not to bite.”

“If you have an idea who it is then I can go and arrest them right now. Sir.”

“Ah, but where would your evidence be, Commander? On the one hand, you have Mr Drumknott and some hired thugs, on the other you will have a distinguished businessman who has never seen any of these gentlemen in his life, with nothing to connect the two.”

“So I might as well stop the investigation altogether,” Vimes said, flatly, with no intention of doing any such thing. Those links had to exist. And he _would_ find them.

“Certainly not; as I believe I already said, you should scale it back a bit, so as not to waste Watch resources, naturally, but do not desist entirely; it will give an impression that you are not making headway, and make our opponent all the more confident. Stopping entirely might be interpreted as giving up – but everybody knows that Commander Vimes does not give up in the pursuit of justice – or that you have found something out.”

There was a smart knock on the door and the clerk showed in Captain Carrot.

“Begging your pardon, your Lordship,” Carrot said, saluting smartly, “I intended to drop in on Mr Drumknott to see how he was doing, but he’s not there, so I thought I’d report to you both here.”

“Mr Drumknott has taken a leave of absence,” the Patrician said, in a very flat tone.

“Ye gods, he’s not _dead_ is he?” Vimes exclaimed, mistaking that for a euphemism and making Vetinari look briefly nonplussed.

“Gracious me no. He’s in Sto Lat. Staying with a friend, I am given to understand.” He raised a hand to cut off Vimes’ anticipated protest, “And no less than six of the most skilled guards keeping a discreet watch, I assure you, although I do not think, now, that he is in any danger. They have the record of his interrogation, after all.”

“Well that is nice,” Carrot said cheerfully, “I am sure that Mr Drumknott could use a break after all he has been through. When is he coming back?” There was the minutest hesitation.

“I am not certain that he is,” Vetinari admitted.

“What?” said Vimes.

“He offered me his resignation. I consider it quite a feat of diplomacy that I talked him down, at least for now, to a leave of absence.” Vimes felt suddenly at sea, not knowing what to say. Carrot, unfortunately, had no such difficulties.

“But he’d never leave you, sir, he adores you!” he exclaimed. A chilled silence briefly descended, in which Vetinari looked briefly at the ceiling and appeared to murmur something _sotto voce_ , and Vimes once again tried unsuccessfully to use his eyeballs to communicate to Carrot that he had phrased that in _the worst possible way._

“I don’t understand why he’d want to resign,” Carrot continued, sounding puzzled and dismayed, “He loves his job.”

“Be that as it may,” the Patrician explained, patiently, “He has had, to say the least, a traumatic experience.”

“All the more reason he should be here,” Carrot said, urgently, “He’ll get much better here with you.” Vimes gripped his helmet rather desperately.

“Apparently not,” said Vetinari, somewhat less patiently than before.

“Do be quiet, Carrot,” Vimes said, before the conversation went further downhill. Carrot subsided, and the Patrician leaned back in his chair.

“Sir,” Vimes said, the only thing he could think of to safely say to this information, then added, “I think I should go and get one of those recording imps. I had a feeling we might have to listen to it after all, and now I’m sure we will.”

“And why is that?”

“Because a man doesn’t run without a reason,” Vimes said grimly. “And Carrot’s right. Sort of. It’s badly out of character for him to go off like that, even considering…what happened, and everything. You only have his word as to what he said to them.”

“I believe, Commander, that you are characterising my secretary as dishonest,” Vetinari said coolly; there was a dangerous glint in his eye that Vimes didn’t at all like, and then thought: _he **is** trying to protect the man, after all._

“No sir I am not, and I know he’s not,” he said firmly, “I’m saying that what with everything that was done to him, he may well…not have remembered correctly. I’m saying that maybe he does remember and he gave something away that he shouldn’t have – which no one would blame him for, I am sure – but maybe he feels ashamed of it. And that’s why he offered his resignation. Because he feels he let you down, sir.” Vetinari actually seemed to consider this.

“I find that a somewhat strained inference, Commander, but by all means, bring one of the imps over. Tomorrow. I’ll send a carriage.” It was an abrupt dismissal, and Vimes decided to not push his luck and left, grabbing Carrot on the way out, in case he felt like dispensing more opinions.


	23. Chapter 23

Robin Trexam and his wife ran a farm and associated market stall a few miles outside Sto Lat. It was Marjorie's farm, technically; a modestly wealthy widow, she had inherited it from her deceased husband. Her two younger sons ran the stall; Robin, a big man to which the term ‘burly’ supplied itself in everyone's mind, handled some of the heavier work, but his primary duty was to keep the accounts. He was waiting for Rufus, in a pony and cart, when the latter stepped thankfully off the stagecoach and into the dusty road.

“Only you,” Robin said, by way of greeting, “Would put on a clean white shirt and a suit to ride the stagecoach.” Rufus looked down at the now crinkled and dusty shirt ruefully.

“Hello Robin,” he said, feeling a smile in spite of himself, and a big grin spilt Robin’s face as he reached down with a beefy hand and hauled Drumknott up onto the trap and geed up the pony.

“Come on, let’s get you back and get some dinner into you. I hope you brought _some_ rough clothes, at least. No doubt the missus will want to get some useful work out of you while you’re here.”

“Robin, I don’t _own_ any rough clothes,” and Trexam roared with laughter.

Later, over dinner, in his third best shirt, he watched as the family bustled about, heating pans and straining vegetables, laughing and joking. It was not the sort of atmosphere he had grown up with himself; his mother had been widowed, and was in case some years dead now, and he had no siblings. Plenty of cousins, but they were scattered about the Ramtops, and on those few occasions that they met, he found them hard to relate to. It was easier talking to Robin’s stepsons, who were near full-grown, the eldest already in training to be a doctor; Marjorie was some twelve years older than her husband. Rufus had wondered about that, when he’d heard Robin was getting married, but he remembered making a rare trip out of the city for the wedding; a riotous, joyous country affair that he had surprised himself in having a wonderful time at, and it was evidently a relationship that worked very well. Whatever had possessed him to think riding thirty miles in a rattly coach this time was a good idea, however, he did not know. He couldn’t get comfortable in the seat, his back and backside sore and complaining.

“You should get yourself to bed,” Marjorie said, after food, as she set a steaming mug of hot milk in front of him, despite his protestations that he couldn’t possibly fit another thing into his stomach.

“She’s right, you look done in,” Robin agreed, and hauled him out of his chair when he struggled, stiffly, to rise, lighting a candle to show him down the corridor and up the uneven stairs of the spacious farmhouse. He followed Rufus into his cheery bedroom, setting the candle on the bedside table.

“Will you be needing anything else?” he asked, ordinarily enough, though there was a shrewd look in his deepset eyes.

“No no, I’m quite fine.” He took a mouthful of the milk, discovering it creamy; rich and soothing. Perhaps it would help him sleep.

“Don’t mind what time to get up. We’re up with the cows, most mornings. Come down when you like and one of the lads will sort you breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Robin paused.

“We read what happened to you. It got in the papers, even out here,” he said, eventually, “We were that worried, but Marjorie said they’d find you. She never doubted it.” Another pause.  “I did.” Rufus glanced briefly, painfully, at the floor.

“I did too,” he said quietly.

“Haven’t been that worried since that day, when the Watch came to the School,” Robin continued, an unusual note of hesitation in his voice, “And nobody had seen you since you got sent into the headmaster’s office the day before.” Rufus said nothing. “That Assassin found you in the attic and carried you out. God you were a mess. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Rufus said, thinking to himself that this was true, but that he hadn’t thought of it in the longest time, when he’d used to think of it almost every day.

“Kieran’s back for the weekend tomorrow,” Robin added, “He’s not fully qualified yet but if you need any doctoring he’s as good as the next, if you’ll pardon a father’s opinion on that.”

“I’m all right.”

“Aye,” said Robin, with another shrewd look, “You always did say that. Well, sleep well.”

“Goodnight.” Robin shut the door quietly behind him. Rufus fell asleep with half of his milk undrunk, with that memory rising again in his mind: the memory of the Assassin stepping with measured footfalls over the attic rafters towards him, of bright blue eyes gleaming from a black silk face mask, until it faded to dreams.


	24. Chapter 24

It was the three of them again in the Oblong Office, worse luck, Vimes thought, gloomily. Watch policy was that there had to be at least two officers witnessing any recorded statement, or listening to recorded evidence. And Carrot had volunteered – of course. He took the opportunity to bring out the imp and plonk it down on the table, next to a somewhat disorderly stack of paper, as soon as they entered the Oblong office.

“I don’t think Mr Drumknott would like us to listen to that,” Carrot said, quietly, an objection he had already raised with Vimes, and was now addressing to the Patrician.

“We’ll keep it to the minimum necessary, Captain. You don’t have to stay.”

“Watch policy,” Vimes said quickly. Just because he didn’t like it didn’t mean he was going to change it. It was _his_ policy.

“Of course, very commendable,” said Vetinari, apparently unfazed.

“I feel I should tell you sir,” Carrot addressed the Patrician, earnestly, “That Mr Drumknott said his captors were very rude about your Lordship, sir, and made some most base and false accusations against you.”

“He _told_ you?” Vimes said, eyes widening, more or less at the same time as Vetinari said, “He told _you?” –_ and _his_ eyes narrowed.

“Not in specific detail your Lordship,” said Carrot, looking a little flustered under the twin glares of the Patrician and the Watch Commander. “He was very upset about it.” Vetinari relaxed fractionally, and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure I can cope with a little rudeness, Captain,” he said, dismissively.

“Well?” asked Vimes, and Vetinari waved an idle hand in assent. Vimes poked the imp. Never did know how the damn things worked.

“Bleegleworble…wurp…. _’Does Lord Vetinari prefer you to suck his cock, or does he like to fuck you up the arse?_ ’’” recited the imp, and Vimes slammed it to stop it, his mouth sagging open*. “Is that the bit you were after?” the imp asked, helpfully, glancing at Carrot, who had gone beet red. _It did not say that it did not say that oh gods it just said that,_ Vimes was thinking to himself, _And this was all my idea._ Vetinari merely allowed the second eyebrow to join the first, then glanced at Vimes.

“Commander if you wish to leave I suggest you use the door. Staring at the floor, I do assure you, will not allow you to fall through it no matter how much you wish it to.”

“These people are sick!” Vimes exclaimed in disgust, unable to stop his fists bunching up.

“Certainly without scruples, but nevertheless it is a rather…imaginative way of distracting a man,” the Patrician commented, as if remarking on an unusually bold choice of colour for a suit. 

“ _Distracting?”_ Vimes boggled. Vetinari looked directly at him.

“Well, how effective do you think it would be on you?” Vimes went as red as Carrot, and gave back his best glare.

“You are an insufferable bastard. Sir,” he said, quite distinctly, making Carrot look at him in dismay, and Vetinari smiled, faintly.

“Search for any excerpts containing the following terms: Genuan, Ephebian, wine, import tax,” he instructed the imp, authoritatively.

“Weeblewarble…wurp…’ _‘Has the Guild of Merchants petitioned Lord Vetinari to lower the duty rate on imports from Genua?’_  There was a slap. Carrot winced: they all did, but Carrot did it with his whole body, whereas Vimes only winced with his shoulders; at the side of Vetinari’s jaw, a small muscle jumped. _‘What,’_ a gasp, _‘What was the question?’_

_‘Has the Guild of Merchants petitioned Lord Vetinari to lower the duty rate on imports from Genua?’_

_‘Yes…’_

_‘Will he do it?’_

_‘He – he hasn’t decided.’….”_

“Next,” said Vetinari,

“Weeeblewarble….burp, excuse me… _’Will the Guild of Vintners preferentially import Genuan or Ephebian wine this year?’_

_‘Genuan,’_

_‘Are you sure you don’t suck – ‘_

“Stop,” said Vimes and Vetinari, at the same time. They gave each other a look. Vimes looked away first.

“Well, that settles it, Commander,” the Patrician said, almost conversationally, “I have frozen the duty import – fortunately he did not reveal this, but I think our quarry may have bitten anyway.”

“Where….where does the money bit come in?” Vimes was forced to ask. Another raised eyebrow. He was going to punch the wall twice on the way out for that.

“The Guild of Merchants will preferentially import Ephebian wine this year, for various reasons. Clerk Vincent will provide you with the specifics, if you wish, but please keep them strictly confidential. Any further questions Commander?”

“No.”

“Then don’t let me – “

“Carrot go wait outside a minute,” Vimes interrupted, peremptorily.

“Yes sir,” Carrot said, still sounding uncomfortable, but he snapped off an equally perfect salute to the one he had entered with and quietly exited the office.

“I believe, Commander, that this appointment is, in fact, over.”

“I think Mr Drumknott must be the bravest man on the disc,” Vimes said, recklessly ignoring that and shaking his head a little, “To work that out…with everything they were doing.” _And the most loyal,_ he didn’t add. The Patrician sighed, minutely. He was the same as ever, but there was just the slightest hint of strain in his manner, and there was an edge of fatigue in his eyes; perhaps he had not been sleeping well. Vimes also wondered what the hell he, himself was still doing in this office, and why, for the second time in less than two weeks he had this strange urge to say something comforting to the Patrician. Well, no, to Havelock Vetinari, and there was, just very fractionally, a difference in that.

“Do you have a new theory as to why Mr Drumknott left then?” Vetinari asked, with carefully controlled disinterest. Vimes ran a hand across his face.

“Your guess is doubtless better than mine, sir. He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, unless there’s something else on that recording that he admitted to that he feels he shouldn’t. Expect he’s pretty embarrassed though. Maybe he just – needed to sort a few things out, in his mind, sort of thing, sir?” It sounded lame even to his own ears, and he appeared to have lost the ability to construct proper sentences, which was never good in front of Vetinari.

“Perhaps.” The Patrician shifted slightly, recrossed his legs. “I tried to…assist him, those past few days, before he left. It occurs to me that I may have been making things worse.” It was a rare confession, and it made Vimes blurt out the one thing he really wanted to know

“Why’d you let him go anyway?”

“He may do as he wishes,” Vetinari said, evenly; almost, Vimes thought, a little _too_ evenly, “He is perfectly entitled to resign; granted a little more notice is usually required, it seemed an unnecessary stricture, given the…circumstances.” _No slaves in Ankh-Morpork,_ thought Vimes.

“You could have made him stay,” he said, “He would have done. If you’d…insisted.” _Because Carrot’s right, he adores you, and I’m fool for never seeing it before. But you wouldn’t do that, anymore than you’d…force him to do those things they said on the tape. Not to anyone, least of all to someone who’s been **made** to do too many things in his life. And if you did, I’d arrest you.  _Vetinari smiled thinly.

“The thought occurred to me,” he said, quietly, and met Vimes’ eyes. That blue-grey gaze was calm, and freighted with the knowledge of how well, in the end, they understood each other, and how necessary it was that they deny it. Most of the time. “I believe I passed that particular test.”

“This…friend of his,” Vimes began, awkwardly, wishing, after all, that he’d just let Carrot deal with this, no matter the cart-crash images it conjured up.

“Runs a farm a little way from Sto Lat,” the Patrician supplied, “They were at school together.”

“I…see,” said Vimes, not really seeing at all, but thinking: _Yarsley. Why didn’t I think of that before? They knew about Yarsley. I can get them with that. I can find them with that._

“One thing was obvious: if I wished him to return, it was necessary to let him go.” Vimes nodded, and, for a moment, neither of them said anything; Vetinari was looking out of the window, at the city, his gaze distant.

“Well, what’s in Sto Lat anyway, sir?” Vimes commented at last, “Nothing but endless cabbages. What’s he going to do, file them?” There was the faintest flicker of a smile, as Vetinari looked back at him. “He’ll be back sir,” Vimes added, his voice a little hoarse – perhaps Sybil had a point about his excessive smoking these past few days – “I’m sure of it.” It was not, in the end, much to offer in the way of comfort, but it would have to do. “Good day, sir,” he added, stiffly, and marched out quickly.

“Carrot,” Vimes said, as they left, “You and I are never ever having a meeting with the Patrician at the same time again, do you hear me?” Their voices floated up to Lord Vetinari, as he rose from the desk and went to stand looking out of the window. After a moment, he reached into his robes and took out a sealed envelope; quality paper, but creased now. He had not opened it. He had no intention of losing on this. After a while, he tucked it away again, still unopened. Then again, perhaps it was trust.

 

 

 

*Naturally, it was inevitable that the recording would happen to start playing back at that point, due to a convergence of the Laws of Sod and Narrativium.


	25. Chapter 25

Marjorie walked into the kitchen, picked up a tea towel, and paused, staring out the window to where Rufus was working in the garden. Robin was up to his elbows in soap suds, whistling happily.

“What’s he doing?” she asked at last.

“Planting beans.”

“I can _see_ that, what I don’t see is why it requires a set square and a ruler.” Robin shrugged.

“Something about calculating the most efficient way of utilising the space.” Marjorie thought about that for a moment.

“Was he always like this?” Robin laughed.

“Oh yes.”

“Well, all right then,” Marjorie said, sounding slightly nonplussed. “That reminds me. A letter came for him.” She rummaged in her apron and fished out a somewhat crumpled envelope. Their eyes met.

“Is that from…him?” Robin asked, carefully, wiping his hands dry.

“Do you seriously think the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork has handwriting like _this?”_ she asked, handing it over with a smile. Robin winced. There were plenty of people whose writing looked as if a spider had jumped in the inkwell and staggered across the page. This envelope looked like it had been addressed by a large, determined snail made of fuzzy felt tip pen.

“I don’t think Rufus could stand it if he did,” he said, grinning himself, and handing it back. “Though I can’t imagine who would send that.”

“Well, I suppose I’d better go give it to him.”

When Rufus saw Marjorie with the envelope in her hand a quite uncalled-for shiver went through him. Any notion that it was from Lord Vetinari, however, was quickly disabused when she handed it over.

“One of the guards staying at the inn brought it,” she explained, handing him an apple as well, which he accepted with resignation. She and Robin were part of a not very subtle conspiracy to feed him up.

“I see,” he replied, then added, quickly, “I’ve had words with them about loitering behind the cowshed. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, laughing, then left him to read his letter in privacy. He hesitated a moment, then, sighing, wiped his earthy hands on his extremely dirty borrowed trousers, put on his reading glasses and opened the letter. It was from Captain Carrot, of course. He had to commend the man’s ingenuity in tracking him down: clearly he’d gone through his friends in the Palace guard to get the address of the inn, rather than ask Lord Vetinari for the farm’s address directly, which was interesting, and surprisingly circumspect, for someone as ordinarily direct as Carrot.

_Dear Mr Drumknott,_

_I hope You are well and enjoying, your Holiday._

Oh gods, it didn’t get any better. He gritted his teeth in the face of the hilly letters and murdered punctuation, and read on.                                       

_I thought you would like to know that, Commander Vime’s has not given up on the Investigashun which is, proceeding at a Fair Pace. We are confident of arressting the_ _~~perperpetrators~~ _ _Culprit’s before; Long._

“That’s not what a semi-colon is for!” Rufus shouted, involuntarily, then looked hastily around, embarrassed, in case anyone had heard him. He sat down to read the next section, hand on his forehead, appalled.

_Lord Vetinari is putting on a Brave Face, as my Mumm would say, but, he is clearly most Down-Hearted. He is a man with many Burdens and, few people to Confide in. Also he, is a very Private person so it is difficult for him to talk, about Feelings but I am sure, he is Lost without you. I know he is most Worried about you but, he has not written Himself, because, he does not want to Pressure you. We all Hope that, you are recovering Well, & will return to the Citie soon._

_Your freind,_

_Carrot Ironfoundersson (Captain)._

He sat there with his head in his hands for some time. All of Carrot’s easy charm was lost in the awkward laboriousness of his shaky literacy; the page was full of the telltale inky spatters of a man who had a deathgrip on the pen in case it got away from him. It just made it sound all the more earnest. He recalled, some years ago, a dreadful aunt who’d tried to matchmake him with a village girl; Carrot’s unsubtle hints were, if anything, even more excruciating, but his target was far more accurate. At least he’d had the sense not to clacks it. He glanced around at the kitchen garden, the cows out grazing in the field, the barn, and the distant, endless rows of cabbages. He could hardly stay here forever, but he wasn’t quite ready to go back yet. Guiltily, he shoved the letter in his pocket, took a savage bite of the apple, and went back to the beans.


	26. Chapter 26

Commander Vimes sat in his office and glared at the recording imp in front of him. In the inner pocket of his shirt, in the battered wallet Sybil had tried to replace, there was a piece of paper, carefully folded in two. Lord Vetinari had given it to him that very morning, in the Oblong office. He could feel it like a lead weight. The imp looked back at him with wide, golden – and completely unintelligent – eyes. He knew how to make it play back only the… _relevant excerpts_ , yes, that was it, that was what Lord Vetinari would call it (well he knew _now,_ anyway), so it was not as if, say, when this case came to court, that it would have to play back…any of those other bits. Those… _completely extraneous_ bits. But they were still there, they still had the potential to leak out, to be heard by someone else, to fly about the City like a gargoylesque rumour. Some part of him still had a powerful urge to squash the damn thing. Except that that would be tampering with the evidence, which did not happen on his watch (or in his Watch, for that matter). He thoughts strayed to the piece of paper in his pocket again, and he nearly took it out. Instead, he thumbed through a dog-eared manual for the Mark VI TrueVoice Recording Imp, a frown creasing his face. Apparently, you could sort of lock it so that it would only talk to the right person, although he had very little faith in a lock that wasn’t an actual, physical one (and not much in most of those, either). The piece of paper in his pocket had a name on it. A name of a person who had just bought an awful lot of wine that not many people were going to buy. Lord Vetinari had instructed him not to arrest the owner of that name _immediately,_ but had not specified when, exactly, would be a good time, leaving Vimes confused as to whether it was one of those orders the Patrician gave that he expected to be disobeyed or if he really meant it. _Not yet,_ he told himself, and put the manual down.

“Set privacy feature,” he instructed the imp. It blinked at him.

“What does blink mean? Yes? No? I’m just sitting there?” The imp just sat there. He poked it. “Set privacy feature!”

“Enter password.” Ah, now he was getting somewhere.

“Erm…how about ‘Wilfred Snortnozzle the fifteenth?’” he suggested, thinking that no one would choose a password based on one of his wife’s dragons that had, alas, exploded some nine months ago, and vetoing his initial guilty thought of _Vetinariisabastard*._

“Password must contain between 8 and 20 characters, no spaces.”

“All right just ‘Snortnozzle’ then.”

“Incorrect password.”

“How can it be incorrect? I just chose it.”

“Incorrect password.” The frown deepened.

“You mean…someone already set a password?” Another silent blink. _Not allowed to squash it not allowed to squash it,_ he repeated to himself.“Well…if there’s already a password then how come you went straight to playback when we asked?”

“Password protection was not engaged.”

“But then it’s not engaged now, because no one’s engaged it!” The imp looked a little nervous.

“Do you want to change the password?” it asked, helpfully.

“Yes!”

“Enter old password, followed by the new one.” The frown turned into a glare.

“I don’t _know_ the old password,” Vimes growled, “Look, don’t I get an exception for being an officer of the law or something?” The imp looked confused for a moment, then, apparently, inspiration, such as it could manage, struck.

“If you can’t remember the password, I can give you a reminder? How about that?”

“That sounds good,” Vimes said, through gritted teeth.

“All right. Hint: what is my pet’s name?”

“That’s _it?_ That’s your hint?”

“Incorrect, incorrect. You have one attempt left.”

“Why you little - !” There was a knocking at the door. Vimes locked the imp back in his desk drawer rather forcefully. “Come in,” he said, in more measured tones. It was Carrot, who also had a piece of paper in his hand.

“Found the one we were looking for?” Vimes asked, straight out.

“Yes sir, and he’s currently in the _Cap and Stinging Nettle_ on Chittling Street. Angua’s waiting for us.” _Ha!_ Vimes thought, finally feeling on top of this investigation for the first time since they’d tracked down Drumknott.

“Excellent. Let’s go.” _Now I’ve got you._

 

*Far too obvious: loads of people would choose that.


	27. Chapter 27

Days on a farm passed quickly, Rufus had discovered. There was always work to do, for willing hands, which his most certainly were, even if one of them was still not that functional. It had been a fortnight though, and when he came in from raking out the barn, Marjorie’s eldest was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“Past time to get that cast off,” Kieran said, getting a saw out of his borrowed doctor’s bag and trying not to look too gleeful about it.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Rufus said, hoping the lad did know what he was doing. In the event, though, it took remarkably little to remove; Kieran sawed all around and simply split it in two. Rufus stared at the skin of his hand; it was markedly more pale than the rest of his arms, which had picked up a tan from all the time he was spending outdoors; livid bruises still stood out against the white skin, even though elsewhere they had faded.

“How’s the finger movement?” Kieran asked, brow furrowing slightly. “There’ll probably be a little stiffness.” Rufus wriggled the fingers cautiously.

“Yes, a little,” he agreed, “And a bit sore still.”

“It’ll wear off quickly,” Kieran said, with a grin, and handed the two pieces of the cast over to him. “Some people like to keep them, and it’s all signed.”

“Thanks,” Rufus said, not really wanting to keep the pieces at all. His arm felt strangely light. Robin yelled something from the back yard.

“Coming Da!” Kieran yelled back, and dashed on out.

Rufus took the pieces back to his room, not knowing what else to do, and examined the writing now that he could do so more clearly; the neat clerk’s signatures, less neat and generally more swirly attempts from the kitchen staff and maids (some of which involved hearts and kisses), and Captain Carrot’s awkward attempt in thick pen, covering half his wrist. And there, right down at the base of one side of the cast, almost on the _inside,_ which didn’t seem quite possible; tiny, authoritative letters.

 _HAVE-_ it read, and his heart gave a sudden thump in his chest. He snatched up the other half:

- _LOCK,_ that said, sure enough. He held the pieces together, just to make it real: HAVELOCK. A rather treacherous lump made itself known in his throat. When had Vetinari done that? One of those times when he’d come into the bedroom, watching over him as he slept? _Why_ had he done it? _You know the answer to that,_ the more sensible part of him insisted.

Abruptly, then, his head span, as he suddenly remembered: the Assassin. The _Assassin._ He sank down onto the bed, mind reeling as it all came flooding back: Turfhook just _there,_ right in front of him, a wicked knife in his hand and an unspeakable rage on his face. And it had been too late, too late; the last moment, it seemed, before his inevitable death, and with the last thought, the last desire he’d had:

 _“Have – !”_ and Turfhook was falling, impossibly, gurgling blood, his own knife in the side of his neck, and there was someone else, stepping next to him with a movement that he knew, face pressed close, undoing the manacles – the faintest brush of a beard against his cheek, a murmur in his ear in a voice his very bones felt, a scent as familiar as home…

 _– lock,_ he’d had time to think, as his arms slipped free and his legs gave way beneath him in a rush of pain; caught, before he hit the floor.

He’d been there. Vetinari had _been_ there, almost as if he were summoned by that last thought. He had come for him after all. He had saved him. But afterwards, Rufus hadn’t remembered and Vetinari had said nothing. And, possibly, expected nothing. The lump in his throat became a boulder, and his eyes filled.

Robin came in a few moments later, possibly alerted by his sniffling, and let him cry it out, one heavy arm around his shoulders, until he incoherently tried to explain.

“Got to admit I was surprised you came here,” Robin said at last, “Thought you’d want to stay back there. With him.” Rufus looked up, vaguely surprised.

“How did you know?” That lopsided smile he remembered from school.

“Rufus, your letters are filled up with him. It’s in every page. Every word.”

“I didn’t think I was that obvious,” he said, a little dismayed.

“Oh you’re not, but, well, we’ve known each other a long time.” A brief squeeze of the arm, “Anyway, don’t fret yourself. He surely understood you needed a break. You’ll go back, maybe have a talk like – well, it’ll sort itself out.”

“I gave him my resignation,” Rufus said, flatly, and Robin stared. “Don’t ask me why,” he added, as Robin opened his mouth to do just that, “I’m not sure I even half know. But I was so angry at him…”

“Are you sure it was _him_ you were angry at?” Robin asked instead.

“No,” Rufus admitted, getting out a handkerchief and blowing his nose and attempting to look respectable again. “I – everything is so confused in my mind at the moment, I don’t know what to think, or to feel.” Robin seemed to consider that for a long time. He wasn’t the deepest of thinkers, never had been; he was a man who was never afraid to just punch straight back if he was hit, and who laughed at everything. But he was no fool, and he had, after all, indeed known Rufus a very long time.

“Why did you go to work for him in the first place?” he asked instead, at last, “You never did tell me.”

“He was the only one I could trust,” said Rufus, staring out of the window, “I just wanted to be somewhere I felt…safe. Somewhere I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night or worry about…about people’s intentions. I never imagined that I’d end up working directly for him when I applied to the Palace. I never thought he’d so much as notice me.”

“You said he notices everything.”

“Yes. Yes he does, or very nearly.” A weak, rueful chuckle escaped him. “It’s funny really. Everyone else is so frightened of him, deep down. He was poisoned once and no one even wanted to go into his room to take him his papers. It was absurd. So I did, and before I knew it, I’d been promoted all the way up to his personal secretary.” He managed a chuckle. “And got way in over my head. Well, my heart, anyway.”

“I thought, maybe, it was that you thought he wasn’t interested, that you didn’t do anything about it, I mean,” Robin clarified, “But now I don’t think that’s case.”

“Maybe I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid. Always running and hiding, like I did at school. And he was always someone to hide behind.” The bitterness in his tone seeped out, but Robin was shaking his head.

“And I was big and fought, and what good did it do me?” Rufus had no answer to that; he never had done. Neither of them did. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“The thing is,” he began slowly, putting the pieces together even as he voiced them out loud, “That after everything I went through, what I had, what we had…wasn’t enough anymore. I couldn’t be content with just going back to the way things were, knowing everything could be snatched away without even trying and – “ He stopped, tried again for coherence, “I knew what he felt. I knew he wouldn’t refuse. He even…allowed me to see it, when I came back. That he cared. But at the same time – I was too frightened to try. Those people who tortured me: they knew about Yarsley. They made me remember Yarsley. And all that poison was back in my head, and I couldn’t get rid of it, couldn’t beat it.”

“You beat it long ago,” said Robin, “We both did. Because we’re alive and we live. That’s all you need. Anything else, you have to take it as it comes. You can’t file it all. You can’t know all the answers in advance, or what will happen. You have to take chances on people. You have to trust…sometimes more than you feel you can.”

“Yes. I know that now.” They sat there a few more moments, in silence. Rufus felt things slowly settle inside him.

“Is Kieran going back into town this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll get him to take a clacks for me. I won’t be staying beyond the end of the week.” He belatedly remembered Carrot’s plea in his pocket. “I’ll also need to send a letter.”

“Plenty of stationery in my office. Good quality stuff too, nothing to make you shudder.” Rufus grinned suddenly.

“Trust me, this recipient wouldn’t notice.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's taken a while again, but we're on the home strait now, and I'm past the bits I was finding the most difficult to write, so hopefully downhill from now on.

Commander Vimes leaned against the wall of the alley, flexing his toes in his boots thoughtfully. It wasn’t the worst of alleys; it didn’t reek so bad it made your eyes water, and wasn’t knee-deep in unmentionable and largely unidentifiable effluent, but there was a strong odour of rubbish and the odd thing that squished nastily underfoot. A rat had disappeared behind an overflowing rubbish bin as he’d sidled in round the back of the pub, keeping watch over the open kitchen door. He couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be at that moment, except, possibly, inside the _Cap & Stinging Nettle _itself _–_ but no, for these sorts of things, Carrot was so much better. Vimes could just picture the conversation: Carrot explaining, oh so earnestly, how cooperating with the Watch would be so much better for his friend Mr Ketling, and how he knew Mr Ketling was basically a good sort of fellow, who would never _knowingly_ get involved in anything that would do anybody any harm, etc. Vimes grinned to himself. He suspected that Mr Ketling had probably already clocked that there was another Watch officer outside the front door, and was now beginning to get rather worried. After a few moments, Sergeant Angua walked round from the front.

“Carrot’s new friend ready to talk?” he asked. She gave a distinctly wolfish grin.

“He’s already admitted he knew Turfhook – Arthur Longfellow, that is,” she told him, “And that he’d been asked to hire on some men for a job by someone else who regularly engages him for this sort of thing.”

“Good enough,” said Vimes, and strode straight through the kitchen, ignoring the startled looks of the cook and pot-washing boy. The main bar inside was gloomy and smoky, and smelt strongly of stale beer and spirits. At a corner table, Carrot stood out, looking distinctly more polished than the furniture had been probably for years. He was sitting opposite a miserable looking, sallow-faced man with dark stubble, lanky brown hair that flopped over his face, and a raincoat that had originally been brown and was now browner.

“Captain,” Vimes said, seating himself next to Carrot, then added, “Mr Ketling,” with a pleasant smile. Ketling looked distinctly nervous.

“Look, I already told the Captain,” he said, “I don’t know anything ‘bout this business with the Patrician’s secretary. I would never get mixed up in that sort of thing. I’m not _stupid._ ”

“Of course not,” Vimes agreed, privately thinking otherwise. “Who said this was about the Patrician’s secretary? Was that you Carrot?”

“No sir.” Ketling looked like he had just realised that maybe he wasn’t that smart either.

“Everybody knows you’re working that case personally, sir,” he said, sullenly, “I just nat’rally assumed that was what it was about. And it ain’t nothing to do with me.”

“ _Naturally_. We just need a little more information on some people you may have hired on behalf of somebody else, who, _purely coincidentally_ , we may looking for. Now, I hear that you’re acquainted with a man by name of Turfhook.” The eyes shifted.

“He was clerk at a place I worked a while back. Big fishmonger down the docks. Both got fired didn’t we?”

“Oh that’s a shame,” Vimes said sympathetically, “Fiddle the books, did he?”

“I don’t know nothing about that. He had a temper like,” Ketling said, cautiously, then added, his accent thickening, “Look, I think he’s a wrong ‘un, there was always something dead creepy about him, but he helped me out after I lost me job and so I threw some work his way later on, like. Fair’s fair, right?”

“Of course,” Vimes agreed. “So, did you throw some work his way fairly recently?”

“Yeh…but I thought it was totally legit, I swear. This fellow, this fellow who gets me to find some likely lads for him now and then – I gave his name to your Captain already so I did – this fellow, he comes to me, says he need some guys for, um, security work.”

“That’s it?” Vimes asked, still smiling pleasantly.

“Er…” began Ketling, glancing at the door, “He did also want someone who had clerking skills. So I recommended Turfhook to him. He’s the only one I know for that.”

“No, he asked for Turfhook _by name,_ didn’t he?”

“Look, I thought he just wanted someone to do ‘is accounts! I don’t know how he knew the bloke. Arthur said he didn’t know him.”

“This fellow who asked for him,” Vimes added, “He obviously works for someone _else_ who asked him to hire some people. Some people of the sort they don’t ever personally associate with.”

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“You say that a lot, Mr Ketling,” Vimes said, sharply, “But I think you’re a little more cautious than you make out. It’s always good to know who you’re dealing with, in case they come back looking for you later on, isn’t that so?” Ketling remained stubbornly silent. “Now you’ve been very helpful giving the name of the man who asked you for Mr Turfhook and the others, so I’d be willing to believe that you genuinely didn’t know why they wanted him.”

“Always happy to help the Watch with their inquiries,” Ketling mumbled, sullenly.

“Splendid. I’m going to show you a piece of paper, Mr Ketling. It’s got a name on it, and all I need you to do is let me know if you recognise it as the man who hired the…other fellow. Then I will be absolutely convinced that you were, as you say, just helping a mate find some completely legal work.” Deliberately, he brought out his wallet and took out the piece of paper, taking his time as he replaced the wallet, opened out the paper and held it up in front of his face for Ketling to see. Ketling glanced at the door again, where Sergeant Angua was leaning against the frame, finding the occasion to inspect her nails. He licked his lips nervously, then nodded, just once.

 _Thank you,_ thought Vimes, and even sort of meant it.


	29. Chapter 29

The ride back into Ankh-Morpork was not nearly so uncomfortable as the one on the way out, but Rufus was nevertheless extremely glad to get out of the stagecoach at the Hubward gate. A figure in gleaming armour that had been visibly reflecting in the sun for the past 500 yards straightened to attention as he approached.

“Mr Drumknott sir!” Carrot exclaimed, his broad face splitting in a beam so wide it was as if Rufus were his long-lost brother, “Welcome back to the city! How good it is to see you again. Here, let me take those bags. Lord Vetinari will be so pleased to have you back.” A beefy hand reached down and hauled his suitcase off the back of the coach with enormous ease.

“Hello Carrot,” Rufus replied, amused in spite of himself, “You didn’t have to come and meet me, you know. I do have all the guards in tow.” And no doubt mortally relieved to be getting away from the cabbages and back into the – admittedly no more fragrant, but at least more interesting – environs of Ankh-Morpork, he thought.

“His lordship was going to send a carriage, but we didn’t expect you until tomorrow so…”

“I have a few errands to run, and I could do with stretching my legs,” Rufus replied. Carrot’s ears pricked like a dog being told ‘walkies’.

“Oh in that case may I accompany you? I’m off duty.”

“Of course, only send the bags on to the Palace, for goodness’ sake.” Rufus had been a little suspicious of Carrot when he’d first met him, both from the potentiality of his threat to Lord Vetinari and because he, well, just seemed too good to be true. But the man who wouldn’t be king had grown on him; he was genuinely virtuous and, perhaps most importantly, was one of the few people, bar Rufus himself and Lady Sybil, who actually _liked_ Lord Vetinari and would happily say so; Vimes probably did too, but he would never admit it, and especially not to himself. “Ah, that reminds me,” Rufus said quickly, fishing something out of his rucksack before it was whisked away, “I have something for you.”

“Mr Drumknott, you shouldn’t have,” Carrot said, seeming to mean it, and taking the brown-wrapped parcel almost reverently.

“No, I really should have,” Rufus replied dryly, “And I think you could manage my first name by now.” Carrot’s brow furrowed as he unwrapped the parcel to reveal a slim volume.

“’ _Eats Shoots and Leaves,’_ “ he spelled out, with difficulty.

“A popular guide to punctuation. I thought you might appreciate it,” Rufus said, straightfaced, “Being such a keen letter-writer.” Carrot beamed again, then looked a little guilty as they started walking.

“Something the matter?” Rufus asked, curiously.

“Oh no si – um, Rufus, not exactly,” Carrot fumbled, then admitted, sheepishly, “I think the Commander wants to see you. If you have a moment. It’s good news, we’ve caught all the men that were involved, there’s just the arrest to make of the man who ordered it. But he’ll tell you all about that.” _So why are you looking guilty?_ Rufus wondered.

When he was ushered into Commander Vimes’ office in Pseudopolis Yard, his slight sense of unease grew, although probably most of that was due to the gross untidiness of the Commander’s office. There was a slightly dazed-looking recording imp sitting on the desk, almost hidden behind the haphazard piles of paper; Vimes was sat behind the desk, scowling as usual, but he rose and shook Drumknott’s hand as he entered.

“Good holiday?” he inquired, politely.

“Yes thank you. It was very…relaxing,” Rufus replied, carefully. Vimes grunted.

“Good good. You’ll be back at work soon then yes?”

“Tomorrow, I expect.” That clearly wasn’t a disinterested question.

“Good, good,” Vimes repeated, then, abruptly, “About tomorrow. As I’m sure Lord Vetinari will tell you when you get back, he has an appointment at 11am with a wealthy wine merchant by the name of Figshaddy. A wine merchant who is not as wealthy as he once was.” Drumknott’s heart went _thump_ in his chest.

“I…see,” he said. Vimes ran a hand over his face.

“I was going to go arrest him there, figuring the Patrician might scare a bit more information out of him. But since you’re back…well, I thought you might like to know. I’m sure if you were to, erm, discover you needed to retrieve something from Central Filing at that point, his lordship would certainly agree.” For a moment, Rufus was annoyed, and then he was almost amused: now _Vimes_ was trying to protect him. But it was the man’s nature.

“I don’t see how it would be a problem, Commander, but thank you for letting me know.” He’d thought that was all there was to it, but then Vimes spoke again.

“We listened to some of the recording,” he said, his eyes frank, “It was my idea. Lord Vetinari was against it. Carrot protested. We didn’t listen to much. Just enough.” Rufus closed his eyes briefly. So that was it. He swallowed the sudden, irrational surge of anger – he didn’t like how that kept happening lately.

“I’m sure you were just doing your job thoroughly, Commander,” he said, stiffly.

“Yes I was, but, well, I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, that was the worst meeting with the Patrician that I have ever had in my life.” Rufus did smile a little then.

“I can imagine,” he said.

“Anyway,” Vimes added, hurriedly, his face colouring slightly, “It doesn’t matter, because I have managed to link the chain between the hired thugs and Turfhook, and that wine merchant. Top to bottom. Solid proof.” Rufus blinked, surprised.

“That is impressive,” he allowed.

“Well, they gave themselves away in the end,” Vimes explained, “It was obvious that whoever set this up knew you were at Yarsley; I’m guessing they simply chased through records, looking for something they could use, and when they couldn’t find anything that would embarrass you or that they could use to blackmail you, they at least thought they could scare the hell out of you. Once they started looking at Yarsley, and looking for someone they could hire to do their dirty work, they no doubt came across Turfhook’s name – he’d been in prison, briefly – and put two and two together. So they went looking for him deliberately. He was good at organising, and he’d done similar jobs before by the looks of things; lots of extortion, most quite successfully. It was relatively easy, once we had his real name and the merchant’s, to join up the dots.” Rufus nodded, not really wanting to say anything more, and wondering if he was, after all, up to facing the soulless bastard who had done all this to him.

“So you probably won’t have to play any of the tape in court,” he said, focussing on the most important point.

“Almost certainly not,” Vimes said, “Which I’m sure you can agree is just as well, because some of the stuff on there could be…damaging, to certain people’s reputations, if it came out, even though it’s not true.”

“I quite agree,” Rufus said. He met Vimes’ eyes; the Commander looked back at him steadily.

“Of course,” Vimes said slowly, “If people come to the Watch with accusations…of the nature that were made on the tape, then of course they would be taken seriously and investigated properly. Any complaints. About anyone. No exceptions.” Rufus had to swallow to find his voice.

“Yes. I know that.”

“Good. Oh, one more thing, before you go…” Vimes looked awkward, “The thing is, Pessimal’s on holiday and…” he waved a hand helplessly at the imp, “It’s locked out. Do you know how to reset the password on these damn things?”

“Of course.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are wondering, at this point, whether there will ever be any sex in this fic, the answer is yes...eventually ;) Only one chapter this time, the next needs another re-write.

It had already been late afternoon when Rufus had arrived back at the Palace, and he hadn’t quite had the nerve to face Lord Vetinari (and certainly not in his third best shirt, covered in dust from the road), so he went straight to his rooms and unpacked his luggage and purchases; small gifts for friends, more ointment that he’d picked up from Dr Lawn. His rooms were immaculate; the staff had obviously kept them clean in his absence, and, rather touchingly, the maids had left a fresh vase of flowers on the table. So it was that he found himself wandering down to the kitchens after he’d cleaned up and changed, and ended up chatting to everyone for ages, then having dinner, and after-dinner drinks…they had missed him, and he felt slightly ashamed at his thoughtless, impulsive departure, even if all they had known was that he was on holiday. Yet he also felt comfortable, secure…at home again. He had needed a break, that was certain, if only to achieve some distance from what had happened to him, and settle the turmoil in his mind, but, more than ever, he was sure of the rightness of his decision to return. At least, to return to work. Anything else, anything… _more_ , was still a question. At least until he saw Lord Vetinari. There had been an acknowledgement of the clacks he’d sent stating his intention to return to work, if that was agreeable; but it had been brief and formal, nothing more.

In the morning, he dressed carefully, and went back to work as if he had never left, or, indeed, as if he had just come back from holiday. He collected the _Times,_ picked up the Patrician’s breakfast tray left on the side table by the Oblong Office, gave his usual knock, and entered, just as he always did.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, as usual.

“Ah, Drumknott, welcome back,” Lord Vetinari said, quite normally, as he glanced up from the paper he was holding, but then rewarded Rufus with the rare sight of him doing a double-take. Rufus was well aware why; the figure that had stared back at him from the mirror that morning had been quite different from the one that had left only three weeks ago. His face and arms were tanned from working outside, his hair had grown longer and curled, gaining fairer streaks in the sunshine, and he had filled out a little under the twin influences of exercise and hearty meals. Lord Vetinari visibly swallowed. “You look very well,” he added, his voice as controlled as ever. “I trust you found the country air to be beneficial.”

“Thank you, I am feeling much recovered,” he said smoothly, putting the breakfast tray down on the desk.

“I am gratified to hear it. I was given to understand from your clacks that you had…reconsidered your earlier decision and intend to resume work here, under the same terms?” It was asked with a certain careful casualness that probably only the Patrician could manage to convey.

“Yes, that’s correct.” Rufus hesitated a moment. He felt bad about the resignation letter, which Vetinari was very politely not mentioning. “I apologise…for the uncertainty, sir,” he said at last, meeting his eyes carefully, “I should not perhaps have taken such an action without more thought.”

“No matter,” Vetinari dismissed it, as if it was indeed, of no consequence, but _his_ face was lined and tired, his hair and beard trimmed more savagely than usual, sharpening the widow’s peak at his forehead, his already slender frame thinner than Rufus remembered. He looked like a man who had slept badly and had ate his breakfasts, in this office, over the paper, without his usual enthusiasm. Drumknott found himself pouring the tea for him, in silent encouragement. “I believe Vincent left today’s schedule on the desk for you,” Vetinari said, moving swiftly onto business, and picking up some toast absentmindedly. Drumknott walked over to his desk, and frowned slightly. “He did spend quite some time yesterday evening tidying it,” the Patrician apparently felt obliged to point out.

“I can see that. Well, sort of.” He picked up the schedule. There it was, that 11am appointment with the wine merchant. Vetinari put his toast down again.

“You may wish,” he said, quietly, “To take your break at 11am.”

“I saw Commander Vimes,” Drumknott said, quickly, forestalling any further explanation, “And no, thank you, I’ll remain here. I’ll be fine.” _I’m perfectly safe,_ he added, to himself.

“As you wish.”

 

Rufus settled easily back into his old routine, grateful that Vetinari seemed accepting of this. Nevertheless, the time crawled by. _Figshaddy,_ was all he could think, somewhat irrationally, _I’ve been tortured by arrangement for a man with a name like a dubious alcoholic drink made of fermented shallot skins in some distant Ramtops village, or a weird dance they do on the Counterweight continent, or something unspeakable done to a goat in –_

“Drumknott, would you send down for the Merchant’s Guild minutes, please?”

“Yes sir,” he murmured quietly, and opened the door to discover Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot already outside. It was 10:52 am; he didn’t need to look at the strange clock, or his watch, to know that. He had his sense of time back, it would appear.

“You’d best wait in another room, gentlemen,” he said, “Or Mr…Figshaddy, may well get a little unnerved.” He quickly showed them into a room opposite, then sent down for the receipts, which took, in his opinion, far too long to arrive. 11:01am, and after a hurrying clerk finally delivered them into his impatient hands in the corridor, he went back into the Oblong Office to find that the merchant was _there,_ sitting in a seat and complaining loudly to Lord Vetinari. A tall, expensively and extravagantly dressed man, with a slight paunch and florid complexion. He’d seen him before, occasionally, at the Merchant’s Guild meetings. _Figshaddy: to specifically inconvenience a goat,_ Rufus thought, uncharitably. He looked so ordinary. Arrogant, but ordinary: human. Not like some evil monster. He didn’t know why he expected otherwise. 

“It really won’t do, Havelock!” the merchant was saying, “This fiasco with setting the duty import has caused no little inconvenience both to myself and many other respectable members of the city’s business community.” Rufus tried not to wince at the rather cavalier use of the Patrician’s first name, something that was hardly likely to aid his cause. Vetinari had raised an eyebrow and was listening with apparent interest. He lifted one finger, just slightly, and Rufus quietly opened the outer door.

“But you do understand, I am sure,” he said, “That such decisions cannot be rushed.”

“Well yes, but – “ he trailed off as the Watch officers rather conspicuously entered the office. 

“Morning your lordship, Mr Drumknott,” Vimes said, saluting the Patrician cheerfully. There was an entirely too gleeful glint in his eye. 

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Figshaddy demanded, looking rather imperiously at Vimes. Vetinari looked up in apparent surprise.

“The Commander? Oh, I invited him here to arrest you.”

“Arrest - !” the merchant squeaked, sheer indignation cutting off his own sentence as he rose from the chair in alarm.

“For conspiracy to organise the kidnap, grevious bodily harm, and attempted murder of the Patrician’s secretary, in the person of one Mr Rufus Drumknott,” Vimes supplied, succinctly.

“This is outrageous!” the merchant shouted, predictably.

“I rather thought so myself, and worse,” Vetinari replied mildly, but with a dangerous tone to it that Figshaddy was unwisely ignoring.

“On what grounds I am to be arrested? I don’t even know the man! I had nothing to do with that sordid affair and you have no proof that I did.”

“But, as I believe you were just complaining to me, you did lose rather a lot of money on the basis of false information that could only have been supplied by Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari pointed out. Figshaddy appeared to realise he was in trouble, and calmed down.

“You cannot prove that. It was just bad luck on my part, I will freely admit; a poor financial speculation.” He raised his hands in a shrug of helplessness.

“We do, in fact, have direct proof of your involvement in the hiring of the men who carried out the operation, including a witness willing to testify as such,” Vimes said, triumphantly, “And right now Sergeant Angua and a couple of my other officers are engaged in a lawful search of your property where, I suspect, they may find a missing recording imp or two.”

“You won’t play that in court,” Figshaddy said, slyly.

“Oh, so you do have it then, sir?” Carrot asked, innocently.

“Look,” the merchant said, addressing Lord Vetinari, “I lost a lot of money on that, money which is going straight into _your_ tax coffers. I think that’s more than ample compensation for a little...indiscretion.”

“Unfortunately, sir, the penalties for the crimes you are accused of are generally more severe than a fine,” Carrot explained, sounding sincerely regretful, “Twenty years imprisonment is usually the minimum tariff.” Figshaddy had the desperate look of a man who knew he had no way out. Rufus hadn’t failed to notice that the Watch officers had quietly moved closer to him; Vetinari had silently stepped out from behind his desk, one hand very casually in the pocket of his robe.

“Look, Havelock, get this riffraff out of here and just tell me what you want, I’m sure we can come to a suitable arrangement. We’re both gentlemen, aren’t we?” Figshaddy said, nervously. Vetinari said nothing. The merchant waved a hand at Drumknott, without looking at him, “For gods sake man!” he exclaimed, “He’s just your _servant!_ It’s not like you couldn’t hire another one!” There was a sudden chill in the room.

“He is, in fact, a servant of the _city_ ,” Vetinari said, very quietly, but with a force and precision that could etch steel, “As I am myself, as, indeed, are Commander Vimes and Captain Ironfoundersson here.” The merchant stared, slack-jawed. “He is, moreover, a _citizen_ of the city, with the same rights as any other, including redress when those rights are wronged.” The merchnat looked at Drumknott, a glazed expression on his face, as if he seeing him for the first time, which possibly he was.

“I think you’d better come with – “ began Commander Vimes, but then Figshaddy suddenly gave an incoherent yell of rage, and lunged towards Drumknott. Vimes moved, Carrot moved, Vetinari moved – and in a pattern that looked suspiciously familiar, sunlight glinting briefly off very sharp steel. They all dived to intercept the merchant, apart from Rufus himself, who merely took an involuntary step back, and found himself behind a rather imposing wall of Watch Commander and Patrician. In front of them, Figshaddy strained briefly and ineffectually in Carrot’s bulging biceps, then subsided. _Well, this was rather flattering,_ Rufus thought, almost amused, although his heart was pounding. _I’ve got three of the most distinguished men in the city leaping to my defence._

“That’s it sir, I’d come quietly if I were you,” the Captain said, with, if not menace in his tone, which was unthinkable in Carrot, then certainly a good degree of _firmness._ Figshaddy said nothing; but his eyes glared hatred at Vetinari, who looked completely unmoved. The Patrician glanced at Drumknott, who quite calmly put his papers down, and raised an eyebrow at him. Vetinari gave him a Look, although his mouth quirked briefly. 

“You move very fast, sir,” Vimes said, glaring at the Patrician suspiciously, clearly thinking, _And I’ve seen that maneouvre before._

“Well, one must keep in shape when one works in an office all day,” Vetinari replied, breezily, making Rufus bite down on an entirely too impertinent comment.

“Come on, let's go,” Vimes said gruffly, ushering Carrot, who was still holding the now limp and dazed-looking Figshaddy, out of the door with what seemed like uncommon haste. Well, he was always keen to get of the Oblong Office, Rufus supposed. The door clicked shut behind them, but he stared at it a little while longer, listening to the commotion as they made their way out; their voices reaching him even through the thick wood.

“Mr Drumknott never has to look at his watch to know the time, have you noticed sir?”

“No I haven't, let's get out of here and get this wrapped up.” Wrapped up, indeed. Rufus looked up, his eyes meeting Lord Vetinari's patient gaze, then realised – it was finally over. He felt his knees go unaccountably wobbly, and had a sudden, excruciating fear that he might be about to faint, or cry, or do something really very silly and embarrassing. 

“Are you all right Drumknott?” Vetinari asked, frowning, “You've gone awfully pale.”

“I'm fine,” he said, automatically, “I just - “ he took a deep breath, and felt Vetinari's steadying hand on his elbow, “- Think I need some fresh air,” he finished, lamely, then rather desperately slipped free of the grip and bolted out towards the garden.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited because of some annoying typos found!

The Patrician waited for half an hour or so before wandering out into the gardens himself, to find Drumknott. The man had looked – physically – so well when he returned that it had been tempting to consider that mentally he was equally improved. He had suspected, however, that that was not the case. People did not work like that, he had found. He found Drumknott sitting on a bench in a secluded grove of trees near BS Johnson’s giant beehive, staring up at the leaves, hands behind his face and jaw locked tight. He paused for a moment. He was not very good at this sort of thing, and it was rare that there was something he was not very good at it, if he put his mind to it. Manipulating people into doing things or thinking things was remarkably easy; but in this, he could not – dared not – manipulate, even for virtuous ends. Not directly, at least. He had to simply try and…talk to the man, and listen. Something people like Sybil and Carrot found remarkably easy, but which he did not, and pointedly did not try to do so, as it suited his purposes better that way. Drumknott glanced across, clearly seeing him, then looked away again. He was angry, evidently, but Vetinari did not miss the way in which his secretary relaxed, just fractionally, as he walked the rest of the distance and sat down beside him on the bench. It was a subconscious reaction; Drumknott had always done that in his presence. He pondered that anger for a moment, and wondered, briefly, whether simply setting it off, like the way he would deliberately set off Vimes on occasion, would work. But that would only be true if it wasn’t _him_ Drumknott was angry at, and that, despite what he had told Vimes before, he was not sure of. He sighed, minutely. Sometimes, he supposed, you had just take the chance.

“Whilst you were away, you missed a particularly entertaining meeting in which Commander Vimes called me an insufferable bastard,” he said, conversationally, and watched Rufus wrestle back a smile. He waited a moment more, then added, well aware of the risk he was taking, “He called _you_ the bravest man on the disk.”

“No I’m _not!”_ It was an almost reflexive denial, blurted out without thought. Vetinari waited. “I had no choice there,” Rufus said, more controlled, “I couldn’t get away. I just had to try and survive. That’s not _brave._ ”

“Wasn’t it? Refusing to answer their questions for so long was courageous. Managing to deduce what they were after and giving them the wrong answer showed remarkably clear-thinking under the most trying of circumstances. And refusing to give in to their slander of me by not simply saying what they wanted…was extraordinarily brave.” A bitter smile.

“Oh. Why?”

“Because it was completely unnecessary. And you did it anyway, knowing what it would cost you.”

“That’s not bravery. That’s lo - loyalty.” _Ah, so it **is** there, still, _ Vetinari thought to himself, and forced himself to ignore it, because that was not what this conversation was about.

“At a certain point, they look remarkably similar.” He waited again. He would wait until he got the answer he was looking for, and knew that Rufus was thinking that too: not for politics, not for the city, not even for himself. But for him.

“I would have run if I could,” he said at last.

“An entirely sensible response.”

“I _always_ ran,” Rufus added, almost unaware of the reply, “Before. I ran and I _hid._ Every time. And I got very good at it. The other boys – oh what was done to them! – but not _me._ Crowtheel was gone; he was the worst. There was just the games teacher and the deputy head. And I avoided them because _I_ was so very good at hiding away. I just got beaten.”

“ _Just?”_ was all Vetinari said, that one word, finding that it was possible to be both angry and relieved. It was not a happy discovery, but then, this was not about him. Rufus swallowed.

“I should have done something, I should have helped, at least shared my hiding place, but they couldn’t keep time like I could and if too many of us went to the same place then we would have been found.” He bit off the end of that hopelessly confused sentence with a clear effort, and repeated, simply, “I should have done something.” Vetinari blinked, almost blindsided by the _absurdity_ of such self-blame, and realised, then, the finality such warping of a boy’s perspective could have.

“Rufus, you were a _child,_ it was not your responsibility to do _anything_.” It was the simplest of statements, but one that, apparently, needed to be said. To be made, by someone he respected. Someone he trusted. Someone whose words he would take as truth.

“But..” Drumknott began, and stopped, clearly not knowing what the ‘but’ even was.

“You had no choice there. You couldn’t get away. You could only do what you could to survive,” Vetinari repeated his own words back to him.

“But – “ Drumknott began again.

“You were a _child,_ ” Vetinari repeated, “It was not your responsibility.”

“Then whose was it?” Asked with such bitterness.

“The _adults,_ ” came the equally simple answer.

“Well they _failed!”_ Rufus snapped back, savagely, that raw anger surging up again.

“Yes they did. Comprehensively, and in every way.” He watched, seeing in his facial expressions how the anger washed a moment more, then ebbed away.

“That’s all there is to it, isn’t it?” Rufus asked eventually. Vetinari wasn’t sure if he needed it spelling out, but did so anyway.

“Yes. Those who had a duty of care towards yourself and the other children betrayed them in the most despicable way possible. Those who should have helped them, failed. Repeatedly. It was a litany of crimes that summed up to a collective tragedy, and it cannot be undone, or mended, or made right again. Those who would say otherwise…are guilty of making excuses in order to feel better themselves.” Drumknott rubbed a hand over his face, and gave a wry grimace; he wasn’t crying, but then Vetinari hadn’t really expected him to. He had always been a braver man than he knew.

“Well, at least it won’t happen again,” Rufus commented, clearly speaking mostly to himself, “At least, not here, not now. Not with you in charge of the city, and Vimes in charge of the Watch. He said it himself. Complaints like that wouldn’t be ignored. But in other places, probably they still will, probably it will still go on. What can one do?”

“Try, in a small way, to improve the world,” Vetinari said, “Improving human nature, however, is another thing entirely.” Drumknott nodded, and they sat in silence a little while longer. Vetinari was somewhat dismayed to discover that his hand had stretched along the back of the bench without his realising, close, but not touching; the urge to comfort, was, perhaps, ingrained, and would possibly even be appreciated, but he couldn’t touch him. Not now. In the end, he compromised and left it there, a silent gesture of reassurance.

“Yes,” Rufus said, eventually, a rather blanket yes, “I think…I think Robin would agree with you.”

“Your friend is a very wise man.”

“Yes,” A sad smile then, that made him grip the back of the bench, “But he has nightmares too.”

“Good people usually do, in my experience.” Inexplicably, Rufus frowned.

“Sorry, _how_ many people’s bedrooms do you creep into?” he asked, and, surprised at the joke, that he _could_ joke, even now, Vetinari actually laughed.

“Vimes is right about you,” he only said, a warmth filling him, and earned himself a scowl, but there was no anger behind it now.

“I will diplomatically refrain from saying whether I think he was right about _you,_ ” came the frankly impertinent reply. Vetinari watched him get to his feet. “I note you have no more appointments scheduled for today,” he added, more seriously, clearly wanting to get off darker topics.

“That is because I have the proverbial mountain of paperwork to get through.”

“Well that figures. I suppose we better get back to it.” Drumknott rose to his feet and looked at him expectantly, his eyes as soft as a spaniel’s. It wasn’t fair, Vetinari thought, to be given such devotion and have to keep it…out of reach. He started to rise more slowly; he had not slept well the night before, and in consequence his leg had been bothering him all day. Unexpectedly, Rufus clasped his hand and hauled him up.

“Sir?” he queried, and there was a plea in that, for things to be as they were, to go back to normal. Or perhaps it was just that they were, technically, at work. He felt the heat of that palm in his own, and made himself listen to that _sir_ and release it.

“Thank you, Drumknott, the leg’s just a little stiff today,” he said, watching Rufus subconsciously relax again. They walked slowly back into the Palace, and, by the time they were there, they were already talking about work again.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited for more of those annoying typos...

The next few days, to Drumknott’s secret relief, passed as ordinarily as they ever had. He and the Patrician slipped back into their working routines with ease; it was both a relief, and an obscure disappointment. There had been other things he’d meant to talk to Vetinari about, and now did not know how to broach with him. And whilst he had wanted, more than anything, to settle back into his old life, he discovered that he also wanted, more than anything, _more._ He was certain that Vetinari did too, but after that terrifyingly frank talk in the gardens, the Patrician had resurrected the careful distance between them; he knew that was out of respect for him, and he also knew, absolutely, that their working relationship depended on them being…professional. If only they could somehow cross that distance _outside_ of work, he thought, frustrated, aware that all the legacy of his capture, and still, perhaps, Yarsley before that, lingered, a dark shadow eclipsing any possibility of a deeper intimacy.

Then there were the dreams. After sleeping like a log every night at the Trexam’s place, it seemed unfair that to Rufus that he should now go back to waking up in the middle of the night, to be plagued, once again, by nightmares. He had only been back ten days, but a week later and he felt exhausted again, and was aware that Vetinari had been looking at him in a rather assessing manner the past couple of days. He didn’t know what he could do about it. _Ask for help,_ said a small inner voice suspiciously like Robin’s, as he woke, panicked and sweating one night. Giving up on the idea of sleep for the moment, he turned on the light, poured himself some water, and picked up a book. He’d read for a bit. It might help him to switch off.

When next he woke, the book had been placed on the side table and the light was off, which he didn’t remember doing. At least, though, he hadn’t woken from a nightmare. Then he realised that there was someone in the room with him.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he pointed out to the dark shadow in the chair.

“Close to 3am, actually. You called out, before.” _Called out what?_  he wondered, worried and embarrassed again.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, shortly. Lord Vetinari made no response to that. There was a soft rustling of clothes, a slight sigh. Rufus was not sure he wanted this conversation right now, or to be stuck in this strange place with his Lordship again, but didn’t quite dare say it. Finally Lord Vetinari spoke again, into the dark.

“I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who are not afraid of me. I can count on the thumb the number of people who actually feel _safer_ when they are in my presence than not.” Rufus felt a small, painful smile stretch across his face, though he supposed Vetinari could not see it.

“Perhaps I am brave after all,” he said. It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one.

“You must understand, before, that I was trying to help you,” Vetinari said, “It seemed to be the only thing that – that I could do. You found safety in my presence, and so I gave you it. I realise now…it perhaps complicated matters at a time when they should have been kept simple.” The sheer honesty of the statement shocked Rufus.

“I know you were, and it did. I didn’t think that you, I mean you didn’t…” he tried to explain, struggling to sit up properly.

“You need to rest,” Vetinari cut him off. Rufus sighed.

“You could order me to go to sleep again,” he suggested, only half-joking.

“I could, but I had rather not make a habit of it, lest I am tempted to add ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ to it.” _Not to mention Lie Down, and Roll Over,_ Drumknott immediately thought, and felt embarrassed heat flood his face.

“Why not?” he said, before he could quite stop himself, “I already do Fetch all day.” It won him a surprised, half-stifled laugh.

“Because, Mr Drumknott, feeling safe from someone isn’t trust.”

“Neither is knowing they won’t betray you,” he retorted instantly. There was no response to that and he realised, then, that he was not being entirely fair. Vetinari had, in a sense, laid his cards on the table; he had never spoken what he felt, but he had shown it, in the small, detailed way that only meant anything because it was _him._ And he himself was still stuck going around in circles. All his memories did not file as they used to; so a new order must be found.

“On the day the Watch came to Yarsley,” he discovered himself saying, “I was hiding in the attic. In the west gables, tucked away in the most obscure corner I could find. I’d been there a long time. I’d done badly in games the day before; sports were never my strong point. The games teacher sent me in from the football pitch and I got the thrashing of my life from the headmaster for not trying. When I got back to the dorm the class was over and everyone else had got changed, but the games teacher was waiting there. I knew what he was like. I ran; he slammed the door on my fingers, but I managed to get away and through the kitchens to the other block. Somehow I crawled up into the attic, hid behind the water tank, and just stayed there. I think I lost consciousness a few times.

It wasn’t one of the Watch officers that found me. It was an Assassin. I heard someone coming up the ladder and crawling across the rafters – you had to be careful in that part, because if you stepped between them you’d go straight through – I was terrified that I’d been found at last, but I couldn’t move; my injuries had made me seize up entirely, and I had a bad fever. I knew it was an Assassin when I saw him though; he was wearing all black and his face was mostly covered by a silk scarf. He was a young man, blue eyes, a very posh voice. I remember – “ a brief laugh escaped him – “I remember he said, ‘Don’t be scared! I’m here to help, not to inhume you,’ and I thought to myself, _Who would **pay** so much as a penny to murder the likes of me?’ _He looked so very shocked when he saw me. His hands were shaking as he picked me up and carried me back down the ladder, but he tried to be gentle.” He took a breath. “For the longest time, after I worked out who had finally done something about that place, I thought he was you. It was only many years later, after I met you, that I realised he couldn’t possibly have been. The voice was wrong. The movement. He was a little shorter. And it just – wasn’t you, even given the passage of time.” There was a slight shift in the chair.

“It was Downey,” Vetinari admitted.

“ _Lord Downey?”_  That, he had not expected. He had never connected the aloof Master of Assassins with the flashy, nervous youth in the attic.

“After I persuaded the Watch to act, I determined that it would be best to go along with them to make sure they did the job properly,” Vetinari continued, “Downey volunteered to help. There were three boys missing from the rolls when the Watch assembled everybody, so we went looking for them. One we found in what can only be described as a punishment cell in the cellars. One we never found that day, although fortunately it transpired that he had just managed to run away home. The other was you, and you had been missing for the best part of a day and a night. I was searching the other attic when Downey found you.”

“Does he know it was me?”

“Possibly, but he would be far too polite to let on.” Rufus laughed. “Care to explain what is so amusing?”

“I thought he was terribly dashing,” he confessed, “I had quite a fanciful crush on my mystery rescuer for a while.”

“Well, you were only fifteen, and quite delirious,” was Vetinari’s decidedly cool comment, and he laughed again. It was good to laugh about it; always Robin’s tactic. “You are aware,” Vetinari added, “That Lord Downey set the price for your inhumation at 700,000AM some three years ago?” He was stunned.

“It never occurred to me to check,” he admitted, then added, “Actually I’m glad it wasn’t you, now.”

“It would make things a little awkward,” Vetinari agreed.

“It wasn’t you that day,” Rufus continued, persisting, “But it _was_ you, there, in the cellar, with Turfhook, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Not at first. You shouldn’t have gone, not for me. Not for anyone. You could have been killed.”

“I can do as I wish for whomever I wish.” There was a certain finality about the statement, but Rufus persisted, because this was the man who, above all, worked for the city; it wasn’t like him to be _reckless._

“But you put yourself in danger.”

“Rufus, for the past eighteen years, possibly longer, _I_ have been the most dangerous man in every single room that I have been in,” was Vetinari’s comment on that; not supercilious, or defensive, simply matter-of-fact. A calculated risk, like all the risks he took, not recklessness, after all. But most of those risks, were not for individuals.

“You may not always be,” Rufus felt obliged to point out.

“I am given to understand that such situations are what friends are for. Or, at least, Vimes.”

“He’ll be furious if he finds out. I’m sure he suspects.”

“But I was here at the Palace when his message arrived; I couldn’t possibly have travelled back so quickly.” There was a certain teasing tone to that comment that invited speculation, and Rufus thought for a moment.

“You must have had to pay Charlie a hefty bonus to get up that early in the morning.”

“And I suspect he wouldn’t have fooled Vimes himself. Don’t tell him; it’s so much more fun when he figures it out for himself.”

“You still need to sleep,” the Patrician added, when Rufus said nothing more.

“So do you.”

“Yes.” He heard, rather than saw, him rise to leave, and knew only that he didn’t want him to go, that he had to take a chance, to say something, to reach out…and Robin had said, that sometimes you had to trust, more than you felt you could.

“Will you – “ he began, and the shadow paused by the door, “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

“If you wish,” came the soft reply, as the shadow ebbed out of the room.


	33. Chapter 33

Drumknott had slept fairly well for the rest of the night, which was something of a blessing, although he was still tired at work the next day, and clearly still had some catching up to do. He felt, though, that life was more…normal again. And whilst he knew that some things would always be with him, things that had left scars, he felt, simply, better. More, he was enjoying his work again. Lord Vetinari had a meeting with some of the Guild leaders in the morning, and Rufus had taken the opportunity to bestow a brilliant smile upon Lord Downey on his way out, earning himself a puzzled frown from the Assassin, and a pointed look from the Patrician; he was quite inordinately pleased with himself about this and hummed away at his paperwork in the afternoon. Across the office, at the other desk, Vetinari covered a smile with his hand. It was only as the day drew to a close that a certain anticipatory excitement made itself known in the pit of his stomach.

“Any particular time?” asked Vetinari, not clarifying the statement, as they finished up for the day and he prepared to leave.

“Well, earlier than 3am,” Rufus said, in a sudden flush of nervousness, but before he could think of a more sensible response, Vetinari had gone, in a swish of dark robes. He glared at his retreating back, wondering if keeping him guessing was a certain revenge for smiling at Downey.

It was in fact no later than 10pm when Lord Vetinari arrived with a soft knock at his door, just as he was thinking that the damnable man would probably show up at 2:45am, and that he might as well go to bed. For a moment he stood there in the doorway like a fool, his suit jacket still slung over his arm and his mouth hanging open. Vetinari cocked his head to one side, curiously, and Rufus hastily ushered him into the room.

“I’ll just – “ he began, flustered, and slung the jacket over a chair arm instead of bothering to hang it in the wardrobe, and then thought, very suddenly and very clearly, that the likelihood was that they would end up in a long and serious conversation, in which he tried to persuade Lord Vetinari that he was, in fact, fine, and did, yes, very much want this, he always had wanted this, and no, it wasn’t some mistaken jumble of loyalty and gratitude and loneliness that made him ask, but genuine – He turned round to find that Vetinari had silently moved up beside him, and, before too much more thought could interfere, lunged forward and pulled him into a kiss. It didn’t last very long; the Patrician had stiffened in surprise at the first contact, and besides he had to stand on tiptoes to reach him. There was a long, awkward pause.

“Um,” said Rufus, which he thought fairly well covered it. Lord Vetinari gave a slight cough.

“I thought you wanted to _talk_ ,” he said. He looked, if anything, a little bewildered, which seemed so impossible that Rufus actually started laughing.

“No…oh gods, no!”

“I don’t want you to think that I – “

“Stop,” Rufus said, then took a deep breath, “I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.” _And I know what you want, and will never ask for._ “You have to trust me on this.” Vetinari didn’t reply, but he did nod, very slightly, then leaned forward and met him halfway this time, for an altogether more coordinated, leisurely kiss. Rufus felt his heart race, but, as the long hand that had curled round the back of his head trailed lower, he knew that was something more, after all; one more bridge to cross. Reluctantly, he pulled back, pleased at the way Vetinari’s eyes had dilated, his breath fast and uneven.

“I don’t want to talk,” he repeated, “But there is one thing I want you to do for me.”

“Of course.” Without asking what it was. In a fit of mischief – probably still down to the nerves as much as anything – Rufus reached for a jar of ointment on the desk and tossed it to Vetinari, who caught it neatly, eyebrows raised, and this time it was him who said,

“Um.” Rufus smiled. He felt like his blood was singing.

“It’s for my back,” he clarified, earning himself a crooked smile in return, “Would you...?” he trailed off, meeting Vetinari’s eyes and hoping that he could read there what that meant. He never let anyone touch his back. He couldn’t stand it. But he was standing at the edge of something here, and if he took just one more step – he wouldn’t fall. He had to believe that.

“Gladly,” Vetinari said, his tone warm, and Rufus felt something in him relax.He _did_ believe it.He began slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt, not breaking eye contact. “Allow me,” Vetinari murmured, pocketing the jar and stepping close again, undoing the remaining buttons slowly, almost reverently.

“It looks bad,” Rufus felt obliged to say, still self-conscious, as Vetinari carefully pulled the shirtsleeves down; he turned to pull his arms out, acutely aware of it, and was glad that Havelock didn’t say something, some silly platitude to pretend it _didn’t_ look bad.

“I suggest that you lie down on the bed,” Vetinari murmured. He hesitated a moment, then did so, as Vetinari shed his outer tunic and rolled up his own shirtsleeves, then sat next to him on the bed. Rufus carefully lay flat on his stomach, surprised that he could be in such a position of vulnerability without, in fact, feeling vulnerable, whilst Vetinari opened the jar and scooped out a liberal amount.

“This smells a great deal more pleasant than the other salve Dr Lawn gave you,” he observed, rubbing it between his fingers a little. “May I?”

“Yes,” he agreed, and Vetinari carefully smeared a generous quantity onto his skin, just below his shoulders. Rufus shivered slightly at the slight coolness, at the touch, but did not flinch. Vetinari’s long, strong fingers began working the salve in with smooth, self-assured motions.

“How’s this?”

“Blissful,” he replied honestly, as Vetinari steadily worked his way up and down, back and forth. It was, too. He’d never associated any touch on his back with anything other than pain and discomfort; this was so pleasurable it was intoxicating, almost sending him into a trance.

“Maybe I should try some on my leg,” Havelock commented, but Rufus barely heard it; his mind gradually unwound, along with the knots in his back, and his thoughts began to drift. Slowly, he relaxed completely. It might be incredibly erotic, he thought, whimsically, if it weren’t for the fact that he was suddenly so tired he doubted he could raise an eyebrow, all his earlier excitement burnt out with the adrenaline. But Vet – Havelock – would ask nothing of him, he knew that.

“More?” Vetinari inquired softly. For answer, he fumbled open his trousers, and let them be pulled down slightly. He went rigid at the first touch, heart speeding up, and the hands instantly moved back up, working at his back until he relaxed again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, embarrassed. A light kiss to his temple.

“Never apologise.” Slowly, he worked his way back down, until Rufus felt like he was going to melt through the mattress, the tension all but crashing out of him. By the time Vetinari was finished, he was very nearly asleep. A soft kiss pressed itself against the back of his neck, ruffling his hair, and he squirmed at the brush of beard and lips.

“That tickles,” he murmured, dozily. Havelock got up and wiped his hands off, shedding his own shirt. “Don’t go,” Rufus said, muzzily, eyes closing against his will.

“I’ve no intention of doing so.” He climbed back into bed and pulled the half-asleep Rufus carefully towards him. The last thing Rufus was aware of was a hand stroking his hair back from his face, and of a gentle kiss, on the lips this time, before he finally and completely fell asleep.


	34. Chapter 34

Rufus woke in what was very nearly the best way possible; slowly, langorously, after a good night’s sleep, feeling warm and completely comfortable. He opened his eyes, blinking sleepily; his head was slightly pillowed against Havelock’s shoulder; long fingers were idly stroking through his hair, and, in the early morning quiet, there was a soft rustle as Havelock turned the page of the book he was reading, one-handed, in the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, the feeling this engendered in him was so perfect and irreplaceable he almost didn’t want to breathe and spoil the moment. Then he remembered that he had distinctly had an agenda last night, at the top of which was written ‘Seduce the Patrician’, and which instead had apparently been overruled by ‘Fall asleep half-undressed.’ He shifted, vaguely chagrined; Havelock glanced at him, and smiled so fondly that he promptly forgot about it and turned and kissed him instead.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked, sprawling fully across Havelock’s chest, just because he could.

“About an hour.” Rufus winced.

“Sorry, you didn’t get much sleep.”

“No matter,” Havelock dismissed it, putting the book to one side, and pulled him into a brief hug before clearly making to get up. Rufus snagged an arm, arresting the motion. It was probably unfair, but _he_ had slept brilliantly, and was very aware of just how awake he was now. “You can’t get up _now,_ ” he protested, pulling determinedly, and kissed him with considerably more fervour than before, pressing up against him, pleased to feel that Havelock wasn’t as sleepy as all that either.

“You don’t have – “ Havelock began, pushing him back a moment, and had to take a breath, “I mean to say,” looking at him seriously, “This is enough.”

“Yes,” agreed Rufus, touched in spite of himself, “But more is better.” Havelock made no further reply, but, judging by the sudden ardour in the way he seized him for a long, deep kiss – the one hand running through his hair, the other pulling Rufus towards him, fingers spreading across his back – he was in complete agreement. Rufus was feeling considerably light-headed, and like this wasn’t going to last as long as his admittedly wildly optimistic mental agenda had penned in, but it didn’t matter. He grabbed with unseemly haste at Havelock’s trousers, getting them off by fumbled stages and considerable awkwardness as Havelock tried to do the same whilst apparently determined not to stop kissing at the same time. At which point, Havelock stopped playing with his hair and grasped something entirely more interesting. He yelped at the sudden sensation. He truly couldn’t stop himself, and Havelock chuckled, breaking the seal of their lips to murmur,

“You’ll have the guards in here,”

“Don’t tell me – ah! – they’ve been outside the door all night.”

“What do you think?” Rufus grinned, and _finally_ got the other man’s trousers down enough to grab back.

“I think you’re in more danger than you know!” Havelock did not yelp. Some things remained beyond him, but the breath did hiss out between his teeth in a singularly gratifying way, and abruptly everything turned into a headlong rush to the finish as years, months, _weeks_ of increasingly pent-up tension boiled over at once. For a brief moment, Rufus’ mind went as white as new vellum paper.

He came back to himself with his breath racing and the warm sticky knowledge of what they had done coating his stomach and quite ruining the bed linen. Havelock’s eyes were closed; he kissed his face gently, almost tremulously, and they opened again; a snap of ice-blue, but that smile, that smile softened it.

“We’re moving,” Havelock announced, frowning down at the mess, and mopped up a bit with –

“Are those my trousers?!”

“They’re somebody’s trousers, certainly,” Havelock agreed, shifting them both over to the other side of the bed. All his intentions of getting up had apparently been postponed indefinitely, and Rufus gave up and let himself lull back into a doze in that nice warm embrace, listening to the slowing thud of his heartbeat and wondering, vaguely, what time it was…

“Oh god,” he said suddenly, sitting up as a brief panic going through him, “You’ve missed your appointment with Mr Boggis.” Vetinari just yawned, and rolled over and closed his eyes.

“I thought you never lost time, Rufus.”

“Well I don’t but…I was distracted.” A faint smile graced that long face.

“No matter. I always intended to miss that appointment. Let him go back home and worry a bit more.”

“Yes I thought you might do, but the thing is…you know you said to Commander Vimes about coming an hour earlier than usual?” The eyes snapped back open.

“How long?” he asked, succinct.

“Um, well fifteen minutes until the appointment, so…” Havelock sprang out of bed.

“So twenty to twenty-five minutes before he starts breaking down doors determined to find out who’s trying to kill me. Marvellous. I will need to make swift use of your bathroom...are those _my_ trousers?”


	35. Chapter 35

Commander Vimes stood rigidly at attention, staring fixedly at his favourite spot on the wall. At least, he was trying to, but his gaze kept drifting back down, fascinated in spite of himself. Everything was going reassuringly as normal. The Patrician had quizzed him rather sharply on the inventive road closures the traffic division had come up with on Koom Valley March Day, and he had said things like, ‘I couldn’t say sir,’ as obtusely as possible. His lordship had complained about getting complaints, not sounding like he really cared. Vimes had made very clear how little _he_ cared…

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying, Commander?”

“Absolutely sir,” he said, automatically, and looked back down again. The Patrician looked up at him through steepled hands. He looked tired. Not the tired he’d been looking for the past couple of weeks, that worried sort of tired Vimes hadn’t liked to admit to himself he saw. Just…like he’d been kept up half the night.

“Then that’s settled then,” Vetinari said, with some satisfaction.

“Sir?” Vimes asked, a bit worried he’d missed something vital. The Patrician had damp hair. _Damp hair._ Like he’d just got out of the bath. He couldn’t stop staring at it. The door opened quietly and Drumknott entered, not quite as quietly as he usually did, carrying a breakfast tray with a pot of strong-looking coffee and piled with toast, eggs and those funny Genuan pastries that apparently had more fat in them than a fry-up at Harga’s House of Ribs. They hadn’t had breakfast yet? It was 10am! Drumknott looked positively cheerful and relatively fresh, except that his usually tidy hair was perilously close to curling out of control. Vimes glanced back at the Patrician to catch him hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Care to stay for breakfast Commander? I’m sure there’s enough for three,” he asked, brightly. Vimes glanced between the two of them again. He felt, very much, like the proverbial fifth wheel.

“No thank you sir,” he said, clearing his throat a little, “Best get on and I’ve already eaten anyway. Lots of paperwork, sir.”

“Yes, there is always paperwork. Well, then, do not let me detain you.” _No fear,_ thought Vimes, struggling to make it out of the Oblong Office before the grin that was threatening to break out plastered itself all over his face.

Captain Carrot was in his office when he got back, looking vaguely put out.

“You didn’t tell me your appointment with his lordship had been moved forward an hour, sir,” he said, reproachfully, “I would have accompanied you to the Palace. I was going to see how Mr Drumknott was doing and have a chat with Lord Vetinari, if he had a moment.” Only Carrot, thought Vimes, would ever seriously describe voluntarily having ‘a chat’ with the Patrician. For a moment, his evil streak toyed with his better nature as he contemplated sending Carrot over…

“Mr Drumknott looked very well,” he said at last, relenting.

“Oh that’s good. He seemed rather tired last time I saw him. So did the Patrician, come to think of it.” The grin threatened to return.

“Oh really? That’s funny, because he looked positively shagged out this morning.” Carrot’s ears went bright pink.

“He works too hard,” he said, stiffly. Vimes lit a cigar and swung his boots up on the desk, not for the first time wondering if Carrot could possibly be as naïve as he appeared. “I’d leave ‘em to it if I were you, Carrot,” he said, blowing a smoke ring happily, “I think they’re both just fine.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am *finished*, finally, hooray! Thank you very much for reading if you made it all the way to the end. I'm sorry if there was not as much hot sexy loving as you were hoping for...I might write a standalone short for more of that, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


End file.
